


Queen's Gambit

by Greysgate



Series: The Immortal Beloved Series [4]
Category: Highlander: The Series, The Pretender
Genre: Chess, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 11:11:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14617193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greysgate/pseuds/Greysgate
Summary: The Immortals are forced to play a living chess game, where Immortal lives are at stake and sacrifices must be made.





	Queen's Gambit

**Author's Note:**

> Some of the characters in this story appear in other of my Highlander works, The Traveller and Immortal Quest, which predates the writing of this one, but each story is a stand-alone.

White always moves first.  
  
Connor MacLeod sat before a 16th century Swiss chess set, admiring the craftsmanship of the carved pieces. The pawns were shaped like tiny squat soldiers, each one individualized with different weapons, unique facial features and personalized armor. The rooks featured tiny figures peering out the windows of matched towers, the knights mounted on powerful stallions, and the bishops properly garbed in formal church attire. The kings and queens sat on grandly carved thrones, but something bothered MacLeod about the set. He tried to decide if it was the familiarity, for he was sure he'd seen the set somewhere in his unusually long lifetime. But no particular memory surfaced, so he took a closer look at the pieces, checking for an artist's mark that might give him more information about the gift, might jog his distant memories for some clue to the significance of the set.

It wasn't his birthday. That had been over a month ago, and it wasn't likely that his kinsman would send him such an expensive item as a Valentine's day present. Yet the card enclosed with the chess set was Duncan MacLeod's, so he had to assume the younger Scot had a reason for sending it.

Connor picked up the white king, turning it over appreciatively in his hands, taking note of the spiral notched off center in the bottom of the flat base. All of the other pieces had the same mark, but as he held one of the black knights loosely in his palm, he noticed something different about it, something that set it apart from all the others and brought a little prickle to the skin at the back of his neck.

It had his own face, and even carried a tiny _katana_ in its minuscule grasp.

That was a little unnerving. Several of the other pieces had faces he recognized, so the puzzle wound a little tighter. Connor picked up the card again and flipped it over, taking note of the opening move elegantly lettered in gothic script. He smiled coolly then, for he knew that Duncan couldn't possibly have written it. The younger MacLeod was near 50 when he learned to read, and his handwriting was atrocious. Centuries of practice had give it an artful flair, but legibility and neatness were never factors in Duncan's script. He never learned the graceful deliberance of proper calligraphy, so the card could not have come from him. The chess set probably hadn't either.

He went to the phone in his modest bedroom and called his younger kinsman, but there was no answer. With a sigh of reluctant patience, he returned to the living room sofa, dropped the card in the middle of the ivory and ebony board, and reached for the white pawn.

The sender had made the first move of the game already, and Connor would be on the lookout for more to come. He contemplated the elegant board for a long time, trying unsuccessfully to envision an image and playing style for his mysterious opponent, but none came. After careful consideration he picked up a black piece in answer to White's move, and then lifted the White King for a better look at the face.

It wasn't one he recognized, but like the black knight that bore his own visage, the detail in that tiny piece was quite lifelike. He imagined the pale ivory face in flesh tones and memorized the details for future reference. He had the feeling that knowledge would come in handy later on.

 

 

Jarod perched on the lip of the elevator shaft, staring down into the darkness below.

"You killed John Nobuko, didn't you?" he accused, his emotions rising as his sting came to its twisted climax. He couldn't see the man at the bottom of the shaft, but a voice floated upward, tinged with terror and guilt.

"Yes! I killed him! I'm sorry! Please, let me go! I can't stand the dark."

"Just like John Nebuko couldn't stand to leave his wife and son, just like--"

Jarod didn't finish his accusation. He heard a sound behind him, an unexpected footstep, and whirled to see another Japanese man coming at him down the hallway. The man's face was set, and he reached inside his suit jacket in smoothly practiced fashion. Jarod spent half a second deciding whether to run or save the latest victim of his personal brand of justice, but it was a second too long. He half rose from his crouch, watching the pistol slide into view, planning now how he would get away, but the Yakuza bodyguard was faster than he looked, and the muzzle roared. The bullet slammed dead center into Jarod's chest and flung him backward onto the floor.

"No!" he wanted to cry, but he couldn't compress his diaphragm to push the words out. Breath whooshed out through the hole in his chest, and no matter how he tried to inhale, he could not. Tears formed in his eyes, and his thoughts turned to his mother, who would never know what happened to him.

He had not accomplished his mission, too distracted by his need to dispense justice to fully concentrate all his energies to finding his family. Dull pain thundered through his body, and as he lay sprawled on the slick marble floor, watching the blood spurting upward from the hole in his chest like a fountain. He knew he was dying. He glanced up at the bodyguard still advancing on him, and wept for his losses as he stared down the muzzle of the pistol.

He watched the second projectile coming in slow motion toward him, and closed his eyes in the split second before the bullet splattered into his forehead and blew his brilliant brains all over the coil of rope that he had planned to throw down to his victim when the confession was finished. Jarod lay still, his lifeless eyes blown open by the concussion, staring unblinkingly at the ceiling.

The nameless bodyguard did the saving himself, and after accepting his employer's profound gratitude, he set about cleaning up the mess he had made. Jarod Musashi's body would be discreetly dropped into the sea as fish food, and his presence in TakanoCorp would be quickly erased. There would be no record that the man had ever visited Japan, and those who had known him would hastily forget.

 

 

The first thing he noticed was the pain. It surged through him with white heat, forcing him to draw breath. He wanted to cry out, but his vocal chords were still frozen with rigor.

_Breathe!_

It was his only thought, driven by instinct, and he filled his lungs with air, gulping in deep, hungry breaths. He opened his eyes and saw only darkness, but a rough surface grated against his fingertips and he reached up to touch his chest. Memory flashed into his consciousness with agonizing clarity, and his fingers sought out the terrible hole that he had seen there.

The shirt he wore had the hole still in it, and he could feel the sticky drying blood that had soaked into the cloth and made it cling to him, but the skin below it was whole, unblemished, unbroken. The bullet wound was gone.

Tentatively Jarod reached up, touched his forehead and found it healed as well, then lay back in the darkness in relief. It had been a terrible dream, so real... but he didn't know where he was. He felt around himself, exploring the rough wood planks that boxed him in. The smell of fish registered, and then the quiet hum and vibration of a truck, and he decided he must be in a crate, being driven out of Kobe by his captors.

But were they the Yakuza henchmen who had made him believe he was dead, or Centre goons come to take him back to that terrible place?

Either way, he had to get out of the crate, out of the truck and away, or he really _would_ be dead.

He pushed against the boards above his head until his legs were bent, then kicked at the panel beneath his feet until it gave. The progress of the truck did not waver, and he crawled out into the body of the trailer, stumbling against the motion of the vehicle as he made his way toward the end farthest away from the sounds of the engine. He found a latch and unfastened it, pushing it open for a glimpse of outside to fix his position. As the truck slowed down to round a bend in the road, he leaped out and rolled across the pavement until he came to a stop.

The driver never noticed he had gone, continuing down the road to some unknown spot nearer the sea.

Jarod dusted himself off.  He glanced down at his ruined clothes to assess the damage and to try to figure out how the tables had been turned on him so effectively. He had actually _believed_ he was dying, and to convince someone like him so thoroughly meant extremely high technology had been implemented.

 _Or absolute reality_.

He remembered Shima Wataru, and the incredible healing trick she had performed on herself while he had been a prisoner on her ship. He remembered Elektra, the infant Immortal once held prisoner by The Centre, _and then he understood._

He would never die, not until someone separated his head from his neck. He would always be thirtysomething, no wrinkles or gray hair, and if the world lasted for another 5,000 years and no other Immortal defeated him, he would see the end of that millennia. Now, more than ever, he had to stay free of The Centre. If they ever got him back, they might have him forever. And that was a very, very long time.

Jarod walked back into the city and took a bus to Tokyo, intending to catch a flight back to America to begin the hunt for his family in earnest. It mattered even more now that he make that connection, that he find out everything he could about who he was and where he came from, and he would let absolutely nothing and no one get in his way.

He stopped in the Soaplands long enough for a bath to get the smell of fish off him, planning to change into clean clothes before picking up his Halliburton and heading for the airport. The expensive silver briefcase held his whole life inside it, every moment recorded and stored on small plastic disks, and he had hidden it well until time to leave.

But Jarod didn't make it back to his hiding place. As he stepped from the washroom with a small modesty cloth held politely over his privates with his left hand, he felt a sensation of pressure that brought him to a dead stop. Fierce nausea attacked him and he folded over, holding his belly with his free hand. He staggered, leaning against a wall. After a moment he straightened, relief easing the lines of discomfort in his face. He glanced about him, noting that several of the others at the public bath had seen his apparent illness and were watching him to see if assistance was needed. Most of the faces were Japanese, but among them was a woman with short dark hair who eyed him with a pleased smile. Jarod felt the danger in her eyes before he reacted to it, and as he turned away he felt a needle prick in his shoulder. The drugs made him stumble and fall to his knees, and before he could call for help, he fell onto his face and died for the second time that day.

 

 

_Dear Mr. Pierson,_

_I have recently acquired a Chinese text incised on lead tablets and authenticated as dating from a time period 4,000 years past. The subject is one that may interest you, thought the tablets have not been completely deciphered yet. The manner of my acquisition is of some concern, but I do believe the tale inscribed on these artifacts is not for the consumption of the general public, since it promises to be an early entry in the Methos chronicle. If you are interested in recording this information for your studies, please meet me in Juneau, AK, during the last week of the month of February -- if this letter arrives to you in a timely fashion. I have taken the liberty of making a reservation in your name at the Juneau Hilton, in anticipation of your arrival, and I look forward to meeting you in person at last. I've been an admirer of your work for some time..._

The letter went on for another few lines, and Adam Pierson checked the date on his calendar. February 26th. The letter was tardy, and if he wanted to make the connection, he'd have to fly out of Seacover that night. He packed a few days' worth of clothes, a couple of journals, a pocket cassette recorder and an old Watcher diary to read during the flight. After making a quick phone call to Joe Dawson and leaving a message on his answering machine, Adam grabbed his belongings and headed straight for the airport, eager to add another piece to the misty regions of his life in the centuries he could no longer recall.

For Adam Pierson was not only the Watcher assigned to study the life of Methos of Mesopotamia, oldest of the living Immortals, but he was also that same 5,000 year old person in the flesh, keeping tabs on the Watchers from within their own ranks.

Hours later Methos lay quietly in his rented bed in Anchorage, sleeping soundly to pass the remainder of the night, anticipating his morning meeting with fellow Watcher and archaeologist, Rex Le Blanc.

 

 

He awoke with a start, his first breath burning his starved lungs. There was a bitter taste on his tongue and for a moment the inside of his nasal passages felt raw, a sensation he guessed was an after-effect of the death he had somehow suffered, and from which he was now arising. Cyanide gas, he thought, if the unpleasantly bitter almond taste in his mouth was a proper indicator.

Someone had killed him as he slept. He glanced around the dimly lit room and knew immediately that he was no longer in the hotel. The room was tiny, and its plain walls gleamed the dull gray of unpainted metal, each seam sealed closed and a heavy grate welded over the ventilation ducts. One door, heavy gauge steel, hinges on the outside and no opening mechanism on the inside confirmed that the room was virtually escape-proof.

And he was not alone.

A body lay between him and the far wall, and another was stretched out between him and the door. The other men were rousing now, checking out their surroundings, and the first thing Method looked for was the tell-tale bulge beneath their clothing that would point to a hidden sword. He rarely carried one anymore, and taken from his bed as he must have been, he was weaponless and very nearly naked. All he had on was a pair of royal blue silk boxer shorts.

One of the other men sat up, holding his head and watching his cellmates warily. He wore an old, rumpled cotton night shirt and several days' growth of brown beard. His gaze centered on the man closest to him and he spoke wearily.

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure." He extended his right hand with a sigh. "I'm Connor MacLeod."

"Adam Pierson," Methos replied automatically. "You're Duncan's kinsman, then? He speaks highly of you."

Connor smiled sardonically. "Ah. You know my cousin." His sharp, steely gaze moved past the other man's face to the last figure rising unsteadily to his feet. "This guy was in here first, then me, and now you. Looks like someone's collecting Immortals. What's the date, anyway?"

Methos turned to watch the third man also, noting that he kept his back to both of them. "Well I don't know how long I've been dead for sure, but if it's the morning after, then it's the 27th February."

"Then I've only been here four days," Connor mused. "Seems like a week."

But Methos wasn't listening. The other man had turned toward them and met his curious blue gaze hesitantly.

The stranger stretched as if rising from a long sleep, then squatted down and offered his hand to Methos with a warm smile. "Tor Somerset, at your service. Where'd you get picked up?"

"Juneau. You?" Methos noted the pronounced upper-class British accent the stranger used, but as an Immortal he could have come from anywhere.

"Ecuador. I was on my way for a sabbatical at Machu Picchu. They separated me from my wife before tossing me in here. Did the rest of you get a look at your captors?"

Both of the other men shook their heads.

"Who got you?" asked Connor.

Tor shrugged. "Four lads with tattooed faces and strange clothes. They took me in an alley with silenced pistols, and when I came to, I was here." Puzzlement was clear on his handsome features. "They were mortals, but didn't look like they belonged to any particular culture. They spoke to each other briefly as I was dying, but I didn't recognize the language, either."

"So the questions remains, who are they and what do they want with us?" Methos finished.

"They weren't Watchers," Tor added. "Or if they were, they weren't marked."

"And they weren't Immortals, either. But without the aid of Watchers or others of us, it's not likely that they'd have found three of us at random," Connor put in. "And this room is designed to keep us here."

The trio looked around the bare room once more, eyes seeking expertly for signs of weakness in design that might be exploited to gain them their freedom.

"Even if we did get out, we couldn't go anywhere," Methos observed glumly.

Both of the others gave him a questioning glance, which he felt without looking up from the cold metal floor. "We're at sea, gentlemen," he explained, intimately aware of the subtle movement all around him. "Probably in the hold of a cargo ship, and I, for one, do not intend to be a shark's dinner _or_ try to walk home on the bottom of the ocean. Some exquisitely nasty things live down there that even we wouldn't survive."

Connor sighed and nodded in agreement, and Tor gave an unhappy downward glance to the bloodstained shirt and trousers that he still wore.

"Can't wait to see where we're going," he mumbled sourly. "I hope jackets aren't required. We're none of us exactly presentable."

 

 

The game was remarkable, and Duncan MacLeod had spent the last decade studying it. Though he spent centuries honing his skill at chess, there was always something to learn from fresh opponents and other seasoned players. Chess was a metaphor for the way experienced players lived their lives: Brian Cullen was negligent and uncaring, blessed with natural skill for measuring an opponent, but he could be easily distracted and pushed into sloppy play. Amanda was sneaky, leading her opponents in two different directions at once while still plotting surprises that won her frequent victories. Some played brutally, with no sense of style; others played to win at all costs; still other for the mere enjoyment of a game.

But Duncan played for the artfulness of it, as a means to discover secrets about his opponents, and to exercise his skills at strategic planning. Chess was life and death on colored squares, and every move was made as if he lived it himself, never casually, for that could get him killed. Every piece he lost gave him a moment's mourning, and he gave careful consideration to which ones he needed to sacrifice in order to reach his goal. Loss was personal.

This game, however, was different from any other he had ever played. It had taken place over centuries, through letters, with an opponent he had never met face to face. He didn't even know if the writer was male or female, since the name was no indicator of sex. Indigo Fox exchanged letters with him once every ten years, through an anonymous intercessor each of them hired to pick up the correspondence at an appointed place and date. Originally they were introduced through Lady Rebecca, who knew them both early on, and thought a cautious communication between them would be good for the two youngsters as developing Immortals.

The relationship became far more than the late Rebecca ever dreamed. Duncan had saved every letter Fox ever wrote him, as well as a copy of each of his own responses to the enigmatic writer. Duncan felt Fox was as close to a soul-mate as he would ever have. Fox was his most intimate friend, someone he loved enough to die for without a second thought, and pledged his unfailing aid if ever he was needed, knowing in his heart that Fox would never ask. The Immortal would find a way out of trouble, just as Duncan always did, without counting on anyone else.

That was part of what made the game they played so stunning.

The most active piece his opponent used was the powerful queen. Fox's white would block Duncan's black with pawns and knights, threaten him with rooks, and harry him with bishops, but nearly every time Fox captured a major piece, it was accomplished with the queen. Each capture was smart, well planned and damaging; each sacrifice of white's lesser pieces eloquently heroic. Fox played brilliantly, beautifully, but halfway through the game Duncan finally had White on the run. Piece after piece Black captured, laying waste to everything in his path, until his bishop and knight cornered the deadly white queen. He promised White check in two moves then, so certain there was no way out of the trap he had so carefully laid.

The next letter after that, he'd conceded defeat and lost a portion of his heart forever.

Fox sacrificed the white queen with quiet grace, opening up another move that Duncan hadn't seen until then. So subtly had white focused all his attention on the queen that he couldn't see the lowly pawn advancing to his side of the board, or the last knight facing off with his rook, who stood guard beside his king. His capture of the queen gave her check and mate in the most beautiful game he had ever seen.

He'd memorized that game and played it with himself occasionally just to watch how elegantly the defeat took place. He plotted counters to Fox's moves sometimes to try different outcomes, but with himself as an opponent the games were never as breathtaking as that one had been.

They were only a few moves into their second game when Fox had stopped writing. Nearly 80 years passed without a word, and now suddenly the chess set arrived. It was only about a hundred years old, but unlike any other set Duncan had seen. The board was the size of a dining table and quite heavy, its squares inlaid with shiny black obsidian and rough white limestone, complete with fossilized plant and animal remains. The black pieces were composed of a variety of dark materials: obsidian, lapis and ebony, with individual faces carved of woods in various shades to simulate the color variations of human skin. The white pieces shared that feature, though they were made of ivory, clear glass and opal. Armor for black was rendered with silver leaf, and for white in gold. The rooks were designed to interlock so that, separated they were four playing pieces and joined, they were two miniature castles of cut stone, complete with wooden doors and glassed-in windows.

It must have cost a fortune to make.

The card carried Fox's signature, but Duncan was suspicious. He knew his friend had wealth and investments all over the world, just as he did, but such an extravagant gift as that needed an explanation. He had assumed when Fox didn't answer his last letter that some other Immortal had taken his friend's head, but now someone wanted him to think Fox was alive again. And if it _was_ from Fox, he wanted to know why the other Immortal kept silent for so long.

He explored the box and wrappings the chess set had arrived in one more time and found a letter addressed to him at the antique shop. He opened it carefully and noted the date. It was written in answer to his decades-old letter, immediately after the death of Duncan's mortal lover, and the Highlander recalled that he had mentioned her by name. He had revealed much of himself in that letter, along with his appreciation for the game they'd finished twenty years earlier. The past came back freshly again as he remembered time and place, and as he read, he thought of all the loves he had lost along the way.  

_Ah, Duncan!_

_Have you ever stood on the rocky cliffs of Cornwall and listened to the gulls cry? Where your Scottish Highlands are green and jagged as dragon's teeth, Cornwall is gray and black and barren at the sea, great plates of sea-washed shale defying all but the most tenacious growth. It is a lonely, mournful place, Cornwall; yet still I find myself here at the end of a lifetime, thinking of you._

_In my mind's eye I see you there, looking out to sea beside me, the wind stroking her fingers through your dark hair, your sad brown eyes dry of the tears falling like rain in the privacy of your soul. It is harder for us, the loss of a love. I think it must be. For we can never have the luxury of growing immune to such loss, or else we become what we most despise. And so we open our hearts to some shy smile or a sparkling eye, wrap our souls in a love we are sure will comfort us forever, and turn our eyes away from the finality we always see coming to hunt down our hearts._

_Is there no end to how much we can love? And conversely, is there no bottom to the well of grief we fall into when that love dies? We all pass on eventually, all of us. But is death the same for us as it is for them? So many questions, and none to answer._

_Ah, Duncan, my friend, sweet friend. Though we have never met, I sense that we are much alike. From your letters I see a man of deep thought and gentle spirit, and often I wonder what you might have been if you were truly born as one of your clan, living and dying without the threat of battle to cut short your mortal span of years._

_And sometimes, when I have spent years in solitude, standing by day on the Cornish cliffs while I wait to heal a little, to find the bottom of my well and swim upward until I can breathe again and feel the sunlight on my face, sometimes I lie in bed and wonder what it would be like to lie for one night beside my oldest friend and hold nothing back. I dream of an ancient ballet, of warmth and smoothness, of laughter and tears and passion, and when I waken I know then that it is time to go on, to walk away from Cornwall and begin again somewhere else in the world._

_You are my touchstone, Duncan. You are my life preserver, my safety line, keeping me anchored and steady during the worst life has offered me. Just knowing you are there, a letter away, is all that I need to keep up my strength._

_Perhaps one day we shall seek each other out and stand face to face, reach out and shake the hand of a true friend. Perhaps we shall embrace, and kiss each other with joy and wild abandon... or perhaps one of us will lose the Game and we shall meet in the shadows of the last soul standing._

_Even then I will know you, Duncan. Even then I will walk in the brightness of your soul. Know that I am always with you, my immortal beloved. Somewhere across the world, I can feel your heart breaking, and wash you wounded spirit with my tears._

_Forever,_

_Indigo Fox_

The letter had her unique signature, the first name "Indigo" with a stylized fox's head drawn onto the end of it, the final letter serving as an open eye. It sounded right. It _felt_ right. The letter was genuine, he was certain.

But nowhere in the letter had Fox mentioned the gift. That, he believed, was not from her. Yet it might be a clue to what had happened to her, why she was silent for so long.

He called the shipping company that had delivered the box, and after a few more calls he was on the trail back to its point of origin, somewhere in Japan. He packed a bag, pocketed his passport and went to Joe's bar to let him know he would be gone for a few days, just in case his Watcher wanted to follow him. The rest of the story he would keep to himself.

Joe Dawson liked to believe he knew every detail of Duncan MacLeod's life, but the Highlander was willing to lay odds that there were a few secrets still left. The Watchers hadn't found out about his relationship with Shima Wataru, the goddess/queen of the Otter People, until Duncan revealed that to Joe personally a year earlier. And he was certain that his correspondence with Fox was nowhere in the records they kept on him. Even before he knew about the Watchers, Duncan took great pains to keep that from everyone who knew him. Even Tessa hadn't known, and she'd lived with him for fourteen years.

Fox was the impossible dream, the elusive butterfly floating just out of reach, something to look forward to forever. By mutual agreement they'd decided to avoid a planned meeting, to allow Fate to determine the time and place where their paths would cross... if ever.

But now Duncan was pressed with a sense of urgency, a fathomless need to see that unknown face and hear the voice of the handwriting he knew so well, to know that Fox was alive and well... and to know at last if Indigo Fox was his brother or something much more. For most of the years they shared with each other on paper, he believed Fox was a man, because of the frankness and pattern of speech. But Duncan MacLeod was going to solve that mystery if it took him a century of time and the world passing beneath his feet to do it. He booked a ticket on an airplane for Japan, reserved a car and a hotel, and left a message for his friends in the office of the dojo downstairs, in case anyone came looking for him while he was gone.

 

 

Everything hurt, but particularly the back of his head. The disorientation following reanimation passed quickly, but when he opened his eyes, the room he was in didn't look familiar at all. He couldn't remember how he got there, or why he should be in bed naked, for he rarely slept that way alone. The last thing he remembered was boarding a boat bound for the islands north of Japan, on the trail of the craftsmen who made the chess set supposedly sent by Indigo Fox.

The boat had been manned by a crew of Ainu fishermen and traders, a close-knit crew that spoke a particularly odd dialect unlike anything he knew. The captain had offered him supper and sake, and Duncan was not one to pass up such earnest hospitality. Then he remembered the delicate, arousing taste of _fugu_ , and wondered if he had been poisoned by accident and somehow wound up a guest in the nearest village. He knew porcupine fish was reserved for the greatest gourmands and that it had to be prepared by specially trained chefs, because one slight mistake in the dish's preparation could make the diner's exciting meal his last. _Fugu_ was enhanced by the tingling, stimulating effect of a natural nerve toxin which the fish manufactured in its liver, and was a deadly poison in even minuscule amounts.

Duncan suspected someone had given him the whole thing, if the aching in his body was a proper indicator. He sat up slowly and looked around the room. At first he thought it was night since the room was dark except for a few distant pinpoints of light. Then he realized that the appearance of darkness was only the result of his optic nerves needing more time to regenerate and start working again.

For he was not in a fisherman's hut or a spare room in a modest coastal house; the room was cavernous, with great stone columns and ornately carved buttresses to support a rough-carved stone ceiling. Great arched windows punctuated the semi-circular exterior wall at ten foot intervals, and Duncan could tell by the graying sky that dawn was coming quickly. Candles and lamps lifted the gloom at the far end of the chamber, and a fire was laid and burning cheerily in the fireplace facing the bedside on an interior wall.

Paintings hung on the walls in heavy silver-leafed frames, with tapestries draped on the walls between the windows to help warm the room. Statuary sat on pedestals and tables for elegant decoration. Every piece of furniture was a sturdy antique in excellent condition, perfectly suited to a man's tastes. Persian carpets covered the inlaid marble floor, and the linens and upholstery were all in dark green silk damask.

He saw no sign of anyone else in the room, and rose to search for his clothes. They were nowhere to be found, but an outfit lay draped across the settle by the hearth, so he put it on. Everything was made of black silk: boxer shorts and a long sleeved shirt of lightweight fabric, loose-fitting trousers and socks of heavier weight, sturdier cloth, and a long quilted sleeveless tunic emblazoned with a rampant horse in silver embroidery that reminded him of the Ferrari logo. There was a wide silver studded leather belt with a buckled rapier carrier for his sword, which he found on a stand above the mantel, and a fine pair of black suede boots with silver buckles down the sides. Everything fit perfectly, and after straightening his hair with a brush he found on a bedside table, he began to search for a bathroom or chamberpot, and his hosts.

A young man stood waiting outside, and smiled warmly in greeting. "Ah, Highness, you're awake. I hope you slept well?"

Duncan eyed the youth's costume in surprise, for he was dressed in a thigh-length velvet tunic, thick woolen hose and suede boots right out of the 12th century. "You must have me confused with someone else," said the Scot. "My name is Duncan MacLeod. I haven't the faintest idea how I got here, or even where I am."

The youth smiled warmly. "This is Tirn Aill, Highness, and you are Prince Tam Lin." He bowed from the waist and rose with pride beaming in his face. "My name is Tom. I'm your personal servant, and I'd like to be the first to welcome you home."

Duncan frowned. "Look, I'm not this Tam Lin person, and unless this is Glenfinnan, Scotland, I'm not from here. I'd like to collect my things and put my own clothes back on, and be on my way. Now who do I need to see to get that accomplished?"

Tom's expression wilted a little. "Have I offended you, Highness? Are your clothes not to your liking? I--"

"No, Tom, you're fine," Duncan cut in irritably. "I just want to get to Kimura Island, north of Hokkaido. Do you know where that is?"

The young man shook his head. "Only the fishermen and traders are allowed to leave this island, High-- um, Sir MacLeod. This is your home now." He shrugged helplessly, sadness evident in his young eyes.

That casual statement hit Duncan like a slap in the face, and anger welled up in his soul. "No one owns me, Tom," he growled softly. "No one tells me where to go or how long to stay. I'm a free man and I intend to stay that way, if I have to swim off this island. Now, are you going to tell me where the hell I am, or do I have to talk to your employer?"

Tom's face paled. He held up his hands, palm outward, in a placatory gesture, trying to calm the stranger. "I cannot help you, sir. Let me take you to the king. He can explain it better than I."

"Fine," Duncan snapped.

The two strode off down the hall, Duncan taking in the palatial setting and wondering where he was. The size of the corridors indicated a castle of grand proportions, but its design was completely unique, blending elements of gothic architecture with the natural majesty of an enormous cavern. The went down a flight of stone steps to another huge hallway, to a set of apartments with a carved door frame layered in silver leaf.

Two guards in black and gray livery stood at attention, and Tom announced his companion to them, once again using the erroneous title with which he had addressed Duncan earlier. The guards pulled open the double doors to admit them, but Tom did not accompany his master inside.

The Scot didn't notice at first, for his attention was snagged by the figure seated in a contemplative pose on a throne cast in solid silver. The man was obviously unhappy, and when his eyes lit on his arriving guest, a smile broke across his face. He rose, leaping off the throne to meet his younger friend.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Duncan cried in surprise.

The King of Tirn Aill was none other than Methos the Immortal.

"I hadn't heard from you in a week or so, but then you're never regular about visitation," Duncan observed as he gave a quick embrace to his older friend. "What's happened? Why are we here? And where the hell _is_ here?"

Methos shrugged beneath his silver lamé tunic embroidered in black. "Hell if I know, but it seems to be old home week here on Gilligan's Isle. Including you and me, there's Amanda, Shima Wataru, your Richie, cousin Connor, Tor Somerset, and a lot of others of our friends and acquaintances among the Immortal community. Including our young friend Jarod, who is no longer a Latent. As to why we're here, I'm as clueless as you are, but we seem to have roles to play already. We've been assigned new names and titles, all relating, if I'm not mistaken in my history, to the kingdom of the Fey in your home country."

Duncan frowned, his dark eyebrows pinching together in confusion. "Tam Lin? I don't recognize the name."

"How about Finvarra? That's me, by the by. Richie is Puck, Amanda's Black Annis, Shima Wataru is Oonah, my queen. Shall I go on?"

"So who's assigning us these roles?"

"I'm not sure. When we arrive here in our rooms, it seems to be already established who we are, and the court calls us by those names as if they've been in our service for generations."

"How long have you been here?"

Methos shrugged again. "I'm not even sure what day it is. We've each been killed in order to get us here, and as you know, we all tend to lose a bit of time orientation when we rouse. When were you taken?"

"About March 10th. Any idea where we are?"

Methos shook his head. "An island is all I know. This castle we're in seems to've been dug out of solid rock at the top of a volcanic cone, and I can see another one on the other end of the island. It's crescent shaped with lowlands in the middle and a lake of fresh water at center that appears to have been man made. There are smaller islands that ring this one -- you can see the cone shape easily from the tower -- and the ships come no closer than the outer ring. Incoming cargo is brought in on small boats from there."

"Great. So we can get on one of the smaller boats and take ship out of here."

"Sorry, MacLeod. There's a wall round the base of this mountain we're on that separates us from the rest of the island. We're free to go where we will inside the wall, but prevented by deadly force from leaving it."

"You've tried already, then." Duncan did not need confirmation to know the truth he saw in the other man's eyes. "Perhaps if we all work together--"

"There must be a couple hundred mortals here, which is more than enough to keep the handful of us inside. Unless you want to slaughter them all."

The two men sat down to discuss the problem at hand and attempt to come up with an equitable solution that would not involve the deaths of their mortal wardens. If such a solution could be found at all. Should they have to fight for their lives against the mortals, then they would do so without hesitation, but unless it was necessary they wanted to spare as many lives as possible.

But since the mortals in that place all seemed to know the secret of their immortality, and to regard them in minor worship because of that factor, there was no longer need to hide it. The mortals might, in fact, be coerced into helping them because of that rare quality. First, though, they needed a plan.

 

 

Jarod paced his room, feeling the skirt of the cassock he wore stroking his calves as he walked. He had no windows in his room, and it made him crazy. Experience had taught him that he did not have the option of sleeping elsewhere in the strange, cavernous castle, for every time he attempted a little rest in another chamber he would be prodded awake and advised to return to his own quarters beside the chapel. If he resisted he would be subdued in quick and deadly fashion, and subsequently awaken from his temporary death in the spartan quarters that were his.

He had explored the castle from top to bottom in the few days he had been there, assessing the potential of every opening, every tool as a means of escape. There was no ductwork aside from narrow chimneys that might afford him an exit. The fortress had been carved with just such preventions in mind, and there was only one entrance or exit aside from the windows on the higher elevations of the rocky outcrop. He had even been outside and explored the possibilities there, but every few feet along the stone wall that surrounded the castle and its occupants, a guard stood watch to make certain none of its Immortal residents left the grounds.

Still, there was an idea forming in the shadows of his mind, but now something else had leaped up on the scale of importance. He had to know _why_ they had been kidnapped, to what purpose, and whose mad fantasy it was in which they were caught up. The answers, he felt sure, lay elsewhere on the island outside the wall, but he would have to get out in order to find them. That would require the cooperation of someone with access, and he was in the process of looking for the weak mortal link who would help him.

_Mortal._

That thought made him come to an abrupt halt, and he stared down at his chest, his hands massaging over the spot dead center where he had seen the mortal wound appear, only to heal by the magic that would make him live forever.

Jarod was not one to believe in magic, but he could hardly come up with the proper reasoning to explain it, at least not without some thought put to it. Still, it gave him pause. It was an awesome consequence to an otherwise incredible life, and fairly soon it would merit its own simulation, or at least a great deal of research. And rather than embarrass and demean Tiamet, the goddess of the Otter People, when he had the opportunity to examine her, he would now have a research subject he could study at his leisure, without regard for the degradation that might go along with it. He could study himself.

All that could wait. For the moment, he needed answers to his questions, and he wanted fresh air and light. He left his rooms, walked quickly through the strange chapel and down the many flights of stairs to the main gate, his ever-present escort keeping pace behind him. One of the mortals went everywhere with each of their Immortal guests, more for moral support than guard duty, and as Jarod stepped out into the gray day he raised his face to the sky, filling his lungs with rain-freshened air. A storm was coming, but he didn't care. There were places for him to go, and things for him to see and do.

He wandered the pathway north as it wound downslope toward the gate that led out of the castle grounds and onto the island proper. Halfway there he noticed the guards along the wall straightening at their posts and watching him as he approached nearer, but he did not come into range of their deadly longbows, turning off the path and climbing the rocky slope to an outcropping of stone near the base of the cliff-shaped castle.

From the air one might never know that the island was inhabited by any but the scattering of villagers whose huts lined the eastern beach. The lowlands were groomed into carefully planted farmland, but Jarod knew that the crops they raised would not be enough to support the few hundred people who populated the island. Ships could be seen arriving on the far side of the shallow harbor, and small boats ferried the goods to a market on the western shore. From northern tip to southernmost point, the island was no more than seven miles long, and at the narrowest portion of its waist, only about three miles wide.

Much of the cone had worn away with time, but the two rocky heights at either end had withstood time in far better shape. At night he'd seen lights shining from window holes cut into the distant cliff, and knew that another castle had been hollowed out of that mountain as well, only there was no restraining wall around its base.  With the aid of a home-made telescope, he had begun to watch the commerce going to and from the other gate. Jarod tested the wind and made mental notes of his calculations, watching everything, studying angles of cliff faces, water currents, planting patterns and native traffic, both on land and water.

He kept to his post even after a steady rain began to fall, watching the guards on the wall as they watched him. In time, he would know everything about the strange island, and after that he would form his own plan to solve the puzzle it presented, not only to him, but also to his fellow Immortals. He would not leave without them, and he would do his best to make sure they all kept their heads about them.

An hour before darkness fell, he slogged back into the castle, to the community bath on one of the lower levels. He felt before he arrived that there were others there, and while he soaked in the hot water he chatted amiably with his former cohort, Duncan MacLeod, who introduced him to his friends, Amanda and Tor Somerset. They spoke openly about their curious situation, but when he had warmed up, Jarod excused himself and left with a robe his mortal companion brought for him to return to his room.

As always, fresh clothing had been laid out for him -- always the same clerical looking robes -- and he took his time dressing. Clad only in the loose trousers tied at the waist that went beneath his cassock, he began pacing again, but this time without the caged sensation he'd had before. And he decided to meet as many of the other Immortals housed in the castle as he could, and interview them to see if he might find some connection between them all.

He put on the cassock and stole, with its odd decoration of ash, oak and thorn bush leaves tied together with red thread at the stems, and went to the imposing apartment next door to his own. A silver crown was emblazoned on the massive wooden doors, which featured relief carving of a medieval queen with her ladies in waiting. Upon stating his assumed title of Father Phooka, the guards outside opened the doors to him and he strode into the grand apartments full of purpose, eyes seeking out the lady who would be waiting there.

He managed to cover his surprise almost completely. She turned from her perch on the window ledge and, upon recognizing him, she fell off onto a large cushion on the floor beneath it.

"Still having problems with your land legs, I see," he commented idly. He felt a smile coming, had to squelch it, couldn't.

"Jarod! You're immortal!" Tiamet stumbled to her feet in quite unqueenly fashion, and took a step toward him. "I didn't leave you, I swear it! I was taken, and brought here."

"When I saw you here, that's what I thought," he returned huskily. He dropped his stole on the floor as he moved closer.

Tiamet's fingers flew through the buttons on the bodice of her silver gown. "I've missed you, Jarod..."

"I knew you wouldn't leave without a goodbye." He pulled his cassock off over his head and stepped out of his sandals as he neared her.

"Jarod! Jarod, my love." She peeled her gown off her shoulders and let it drop to her ankles, then stepped out of the pool of silver and held out her arms to him.

He stopped advancing, his fingers working the drawstring on his trousers without a glance, too caught up in the fever of welcome in her eyes to risk looking away. The pants fluttered to the floor and he grasped the right cuff with his left toes and held it as he stepped out, repeating the gesture on the other side. By the time he was naked she was in his arms, and he carried her to the ornate bed, laid her down on it, and showed her how pleased he was to see her.

His interview of the other Immortals could wait.

 

 

Thunder rumbled outside, and the sky was inky black save for the occasional flashes of lightning outside. Man and woman snuggled closer beneath the covers, and as they recovered from an extended bout of lovemaking, he ventured to ask the question that had bothered him for such a long time.

"Did you know, Tiamet? That I'd be one of you?"

She adjusted her position on his chest, and embraced his ribs tighter. "We all did, Methos, Duncan and me. But we believed equally that we should allow you to find out about your mortality in your own time. And we knew you would be smart enough to figure it out when it happened to you."

He said nothing, just enjoying the sensation of her body close to his, her legs intertwined with his, her ear against his chest as she listened to the slow, rhythmic beat of his heart. Inhaling deeply, he savored the scent of sex in the air, the special perfume of her body that was uniquely her own, mixed with the muskier scent of himself. During the months he had been on board her ship they had never touched in this fashion, but when she came ashore for the first time in eons and said a final farewell to her ship-borne people, she and Jarod had run away together to the wilds of New York, so he could teach her how to live on land again.

For days her excitement had been so extreme that she fell into bed exhausted every night after rushing from one marvelous discovery to another. In her he saw the child he had never been, and through her he began to recover his innocence, the lost little boy that had been shut up inside his soul for such a long time. Almost a month had passed before she came to his bed, and when she did, both of them knew the relationship would be a very long one.

He had no idea how long that could be, not until that moment in her arms.

"Then why do you all carry swords? There's one in my room, which is right next door, by the way."

She started to answer, but a knock sounded on her door and before she could turn the caller away, the doors opened and Methos strode in.

He might have been a gentleman and excused his untimely interruption, or played his part of king and berated his queen for her infidelity. Instead, he just stood there, grinning broadly until the laughter bubbled out his lips. He stood halfway between the door and the bed, and applauded.

"Well, I wondered how long it would take you two to get together. Perhaps I should hand over my unwanted crown to you, my Phooka friend. I guess that makes you a Pretender to the throne, eh?"

Jarod had sat up in the bed to shield Tiamet from his view, but following those comments, he felt his face heating up.

"Knock it off, Methos," Tiamet snarled, leaning past her bedmate without bothering to cover up. She was born long before modesty came into vogue, and had been so long under the scrutiny of her servants that the thought never came to her. "Surely you're not taking this king business to heart?"

"Hardly," the eldest Immortal chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest. "But I'm interested to hear what our youngest member has to say about all this. That is, if he's put his amazing brain to the problem yet. I'm almost certain your _other_ head isn't any brighter than mine."

Tiamet giggled in spite of her attempt at control. "That I wouldn't know, old man. You declined some of the hospitality I offered, as I recall." She nudged Jarod playfully. "But I'd be willing to bet my young man is every bit as talented as you in that respect. Perhaps even more so."

Methos sucked in a gasp of air with a wounded grimace. "Ouch, that stung. Perhaps I should show you my version of the Kama Sutra, Tiamet, love. One _does_ learn a few things in 5,000 years, and I'll bet even an old woman like you hasn't done it all yet."

Jarod held up his hands to silence both of them. "That's enough, don't you think? Some privacy would be nice."

The other man shook his head regretfully. "Sorry, mate. I'm right ahead of the night watch. If you're not in your own room by one o'clock, they put you there. And I doubt they'd wait for you to dress. So if you'll gather your things and scat next door, I'll have a word with Tiamet and be on my way as well."

Jarod glanced at the woman's face, saw her smile of reassurance, and he kissed her one last time before leaving the bed. He felt no embarrassment for his nakedness, having lived for so much of his life under the scrutiny of others, but after he had stepped into his trousers and gathered his other clothing, he returned to the bed to tug the sheets up over Tiamet's exposed breasts.

Then he turned on his heel and left the palatial bedroom.

"Has he got it figured out yet?" Methos asked tensely.

"The immortality? Yes, but he'll still need to be told the rules. All of them need that." Tiamet lay back against her pillow, arms behind her head, unconcerned about the modesty that Jarod had so wanted to protect. Methos had seen her naked on many occasions over their long association, and had never been attracted to her. She had no problem with that at all.

"What about all this?" He waved a hand around the room, indicating their common situation.

"We didn't have time to chat about it," she confessed with a grin. "But knowing Jarod, I'm sure he's working on it."

Methos nodded with approval. "We'll have a meeting tomorrow at the noon meal. Tell the boy we'll need him there." He grinned again then, his earlier sternness melting away. "And don't let him waste all his energy between the sheets. The rest of us are counting on him, too."

"Aye, Your Majesty," Tiamet returned with a satisfied smile. "We all have our sacrifices to make, eh?"

 

 

Duncan leaned on his elbows on the window ledge and gazed out at the low white clouds dotting the horizon after the storm the previous day. Terns and seagulls danced on the breeze, calling to each other as they played tag, but another familiar cry drew his attention downward, his eyes searching for the peacock that had caught his attention. There were two of them; one brilliantly colored and a snow-white albino, both splendidly male, tails spread and quivering in display for a dull brown hen who seemed oblivious to both of them. He smiled, thinking of a woman he'd courted in just such a foolish fashion eons ago.

Movement in a shadow of the courtyard below drew his gaze, and a dark shape separated itself from the rest of the early morning gloom. The caped figure strolled slowly toward the birds, and as it approached a slender brown hand emerged from the folds of the cloak and scattered seed across the paving stones for the pea hen. A gust of wind blew back the hood covering the stranger's face, and revealed a startling mane of long, straight hair so white it made him blink in surprise.

Duncan expected the face beneath that fall of hair to be lined with age, but as the figure continued to stroll and neared the tower that housed his rooms, the woman looked up slightly toward the horizon, giving her observer a full view of her breathtaking face.

She was young, with unblemished _cafe au lait_ skin and light-hued eyes shielded by brows and lashes as black as night. Her features suggested a mixture of races: slightly aquiline nose and full lips that hinted at African ancestry, the cheekbones and facial structure of a Native American, something Asian about her almond-shaped, upward slanted eyes, and undeniably Caucasian elements in her pale hair and eyes. She was the most exotic woman Duncan had ever seen, almost inhumanly beautiful, and as she walked the cape blew back from her shoulders to reveal lush curves accented by the close-fitting black gown she wore beneath the cloak.

Desire proclaimed itself suddenly in Duncan's body, and thoughts of rhythmic movement and harsh breathing clouded his mind as he stared at her. Though he had served at court for scores of kings and queens in his lifetime, he had rarely seen a person of such obvious nobility, such regal bearing, and when the flush of lust began to wane, he wondered who she was.

As if she felt herself under scrutiny, the woman turned and looked directly up at his window. Duncan's first instinct was to step back into the shadows of the candle-lit chamber, to prevent her from confirming the eyes upon her. But he held his place instead, straightened and offered her a formal bow, never taking his eyes from hers. He smiled, hoping to win one in return. He wanted to call down to her to wait, that he might join her and talk a while.

The woman started at him without the slightest expression, then lifted her hood to hide her face again, slowly, deliberately, and strolled back into the castle using the same hidden doorway from which she had entered the courtyard.

Duncan straightened and leaned against the casement, his eyes closed as he envisioned her up close. He wondered how she would taste, whether her voice would be musical or smoky. Hunger such as he had never known before swept through him, setting his skin ablaze and quickening his breath as he pictured her in his bed, gasping his name in ecstasy. Reason fled as fantasy took control of his legs, carrying him out of his apartments and into the castle proper, down to the ground floor and outside. The cool air against his skin drew him slowly back to himself, and by the time he reached the area where he thought the doorway might be, he was calm enough to realize what he was doing and start trying to think of something intelligent to say to her when he did track her down.

Three hours later he stood at the door to the great dining hall, glancing inside to see if the woman had come to the meeting, if she was one of the Immortals. There were so many of them in his vicinity within the castle that his radar was often confused, and he couldn't tell for certain if he had felt her or not. The mortals he passed did not escape his curious questions about the mysterious woman, but no one seemed to know anything about her. Or at least, they were unwilling to part with the information if they did.

Methos was the last one in the door, and gave his younger friend a nod to bring him to the table.

Duncan accompanied the older man toward the great round table, firing questions at him in rapid succession about the nameless stranger.

"Sorry, mate. Haven't seen anyone like that," Methos returned casually. "But we've got more important things to deal with at the moment. Pull in your horns and get your head in the game, eh? I'm sure there will be plenty of time afterward to look for her."

"Right." The two men approached the table and noted that their character names were painted in silver leaf before each chair. They seated themselves accordingly, and Methos stood up to bring the crowd to attention.

"Ladies, gentlemen, fellow Immortals," he began regally. "Someone has decided to make sport of us. We have been hunted and killed to facilitate being brought here, and all the mortals who surround us are well aware of our secret and don't hesitate to use the threat of painful albeit temporary death to keep us in line. I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm getting damned tired of it all."

A chorus of agreement rose up all around him.

"Perhaps we should start with those who've been here the longest. They might know more about why we're here than we newcomers."

Tiamet stood beside him as he acknowledged her and sat down. "Sorry to disappoint you, Finvarra, my liege, but I seem to have been first to arrive and I know as little as the rest of you. We have assigned characters, and our mortal keepers make certain that we fulfill those roles, that we keep to our places. I have been here about a year, and -- trust me -- I would not sit around in this palatial splendor without attempting to escape with all my resources. I have had a lifetime of gilded captivity, and freedom is the air that I breathe. Here in this place, I am stifled beyond words."

Jarod took her hand at the sound of unshed tears in her voice, and then rose from his chair. He met each pair of eyes around the table in a sweep that acknowledged each one of them individually. Then he turned his eyes downward to the place name on the table before him. _Phooka._

"Recently I discovered that a phooka is a mythical creature that can change its shape, so maybe that's an appropriate identity for me," he began. "My name is Jarod. I'm probably the youngest among you, but I've spent my life solving other people's problems, from murder to development of technical gadgetry and weapons of mass destruction. Given time and cooperation from each of you, I might solve this puzzle as well, if you'll agree to let me try."

"You've got my vote," Methos said sharply. "Whoever decided to make me king should have his head examined."

Jarod glanced at him. "I think that may be because you're the oldest one here. Tiamet is next in line, so she's the natural choice for queen. The rest of us, I'm not as sure about, so I'd like to conduct interviews with each of you, to see if I can find a connection that would bring us all together here. From that, I hope to be able to gain us our freedom. We all seem to share an extreme aversion to captivity, no matter how pleasant its trappings. Prison is still prison. Will you agree to help me find a way out of this..." He gestured around the room, glancing up at the distant ceiling, then meeting several eyes all assessing him with varying levels of trust, or lack thereof.

"How do we know we can trust this fellow?" demanded Connor with an appraising stare. "By his own admission, he's new to us."

Duncan stood and leaned forward to meet his kinsman's eyes. "I've worked with Jarod before, and he's been modest about his abilities. If any of us could solve this puzzle in a year, Jarod would have the answer in a few days. He's got my vote and my cooperation. I trust him to do what's right for all of us."

Tiamet rose from her chair and agreed, followed by Methos. All around the table the others stood individually and pledged themselves to the quest, and then the last Immortal standing guard at the closed doors opened them to admit their mortal servants and platters of food. Business for the moment was temporarily set aside in favor of luncheon, and new friendships began to form tentatively as the group shared bits of their personal histories.

And Duncan MacLeod's heart sank as he realized that all of the Immortals being held in the castle were at that table, which meant that the woman he had seen in the courtyard was not one of them. He would have to turn his search to the mortals surrounding them, and hope that one of them had seen her, or knew who she was. And immediately following the meal he left with the others for their quarters, but did not stay there. He had a quest of his own to fulfill.

 

 

He felt it just before he strode into his quarters, that sensation that meant another of his kind was near. He stopped just inside the doorway, feeling the sturdy plank of wood closing behind him, the whoosh of moving air stirring the rear skirt of his tunic. But upon scanning the room he saw no one waiting for him, and instinctively reached for the sword he wore in plain view at his waist.

"Come out!" he challenged, taking a step further into the room, heading for the bed, ready to cautiously peer beneath it for the intruder. But as he moved about the room the sensation began to fade until it was gone completely.

Then he saw the note on his pillow, and went to fetch it with his left hand, his sword still held firmly in his right. He picked it up and recognized the elegantly familiar calligraphy instantly. He dropped his _katana_ on the bed and opened the flap, tearing through the wax seal with a fox's head on it.

_Do not look for me, my friend. I will come to you soon. Please keep my secret. No one knows I am still here._

His hand quivered as he held the note in it, and unexpected joy sang in his heart.

Indigo Fox was on the island with him! She was the one he had seen in the courtyard, and his inquiries were a threat to her. The note was a friendly request for his silence to ensure her safety, and he would gladly give it.

He kept to his apartments for the rest of the day, anxious when Jarod came to ask his questions. Some of them puzzled him, for it seemed that the Pretender knew subtleties about him that even his closest friends hadn't noticed, not even after long-standing friendships centuries old. But that was why he'd placed such confidence in the young man, and Duncan answered everything with complete honesty.

The Highlander tried sleeping around midnight, but his eyes refused to close. He stared at the rough stone ceiling and tried to calculate how long it had taken to hollow the castle out of the mountain to wear himself down. It was better than counting sheep.

But he felt the shimmer of presence long before he heard movement, and sat up in his bed to wait. His _katana_ was within reach, ready for battle, but Duncan hoped it would not be needed.

Somewhere in the shadows of the big room something moved, a quiet scrape of wood, stone and metal, and then a silhouette formed in the semi-darkness, approaching the bed slowly, cautiously, and stopped six feet from the bedpost. Small, dark hands appeared out of the blackness of the cloak, pushed back the hood, and as her head emerged into the wan glow of candle light from the nightstand, she smiled at him.

There were tears in her eyes, and she held her arms out to him in invitation.

He filled them instantly, lifting her off the floor in his excitement, but found his throat closed by the intensity of his joy. She was small, fragile and delicate, and for what seemed like hours he just stood and held her, reveling in the feel of her body against his, her arms around him, her hands stroking his back and shoulders, combing through his hair.

She pulled away abruptly and leaned back in his embrace. Her hands waved in his face, performing a beautiful ballet of silent gestures that carried her message to him.

"Hold on, I'm a little rusty with sign language," he said, and released her to give her more room to gesticulate. As she repeated her previous message more slowly, he spoke it aloud to make certain he understood. " _'I never expected to meet you like this.'_ Me, either, but I'm glad you're here. There's so much I want to tell you, Fox."

_You're in danger. If you stay, you'll all be killed._

"How? By whom? What's going on here? None of us know why we were brought here. Tell me what you know."

Fox frowned and glanced at the floor for a moment. _To play the game,_ she signed. _The White King enjoys a deadly contest._

"White King? Who is that?"

The woman pointed toward the window and walked him to it, her hand lightly touching his. Then she pointed at the distant peak barely visible through a cloak of low clouds, save for the occasional light shining out a similar window. She watched his face as he contemplated the meaning, his expression darkening with disapproval.

"He means us to fight each other, then?"

Duncan forgot for a moment that he had been facing away from her, and repeated his question where she could see his lips moving.

Fox shook her head, her pale hair glistening with reflected light. She pointed out the window again, then signed, _He means you to fight them._

"Others of us?"

She nodded. _You must leave this place, Duncan. He will see you all killed._

The Scot saw the fear in her eyes, fear for him rather than herself. He took her face in his hands and opened up his soul to her with a wordless stare. "Not without you," he promised.

He leaned down to kiss her, but she grasped his wrists and drew his hands gently away.

Urgently she repeated her message, her mouth a firm line of determination. Her eyes pleaded with him, and she gave him a little push to emphasize her message.

"Why did you stop writing?" he asked suddenly. "Was it because you were brought here?"

She tried to pull out of his grasp, but his fingers tightened around her arms. Her eyes flashed a warning and she gripped his arms in return, then pushed him away. He let go.

 _This is not the time,_ she told him, her gestures emphatic, clipped. _Get out while you can._

A knock sounded on the door and he glanced at it, expecting the servant to announce lock-in for the night, and when he turned his attention back to Fox, she was gone. He barely heard the quiet scrape of the hidden door closing, couldn't see it in the far end of the room, but rushed toward the whisper of noise anyway, hoping to catch her before she quite got away.

But when he got to where he thought she had been there was nothing, and he spent hours searching with a candle for the secret opening, and could find no trace of it, nor the lever that would make it open.

He was still pacing when the sun came up, weary and filled with conflicting emotions. And as soon as he could get out of his room, he went straight to Jarod's chamber to tell him what little information he had gained.

 

 

Early in the morning, just after breakfast had been served, a lone rider dressed in white and gold livery rode through the gatehouse and up to the castle door. He was handsome, but with a touch of cruelty in his cold smile that was unmistakable. He requested an audience with King Finvarra, and after a hasty assembly of the resident Immortals, he was led into the great hall and presented herself with the appearance of great respect.

“I am Pan, of the Castle Eleusis,” she announced formally. “I come to you in behalf of my master, Zeus, who wishes concourse with one of your lesser nobles. I am charged to approve your choice, and escort him or her to Olympus to treat with my master.”

Methos leaned forward on his silver throne, propping his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands lightly before him. He scrutinized her well, and noted that his uniform was exactly the same as Finn MacCool’s, save for the coloring. Black and silver was the standard uniform of all the Immortals imprisoned there; all their servants wore black as well but with other colors dominating, separating them by sight from their captive nobility.

“Zeus, eh?” he mused. “Is he all stocked up with lightning bolts? There may be a storm coming.”

The man’s haughty expression never faltered. “Choose, Your Majesty.”

“Tell Zeus he can come here and kiss my royal arse. I’m not sending any of my friends out to be slaughtered.”

Pan scanned the gallery where the others were assembled, and began naming characters. “You may choose from any of these, Your Majesty. If you have made no choice by tomorrow noon, Zeus will send his minions to the village and take the lives of 20 mortals in exchange.”

Methos rose from his gleaming chair and took a step down toward the ambassador from the other castle. “This is madness! How can I fight him as a prisoner? That’s what he wants, isn’t it? He’s playing the Game, but he’s cheating. You tell him I said that. If he wants an honorable fight, I’ll give him one. But I won’t play by his rules.”

The envoy laughed lightly. “Change comes hard for you old ones, doesn't it?” He bowed deeply, turned on his heel and left the audience hall without further conversation.

Methos glanced at his compatriots. “Well, mates, it seems the gauntlet has been flung at us. Now what do we do? I’ve never been much for making others’ decisions for them. I think this is something we have to work out both individually, and as a group.”

“White has made the first move,” said Jarod from his seat in the gallery. “And I think this is a chess game.” He glanced at the people Pan had named and considered before speaking. Some of the details he would need to keep to himself. “There are 16 of us, the same number of black pieces on a chessboard. We have a king and queen, two priests who might be bishops, princes who could also serve as knights, and two castellans, one for the upper floors and one for the lower, to keep watch over the castle itself. And then we have the nobles, the pawns. Pan has selected characters who are either pawns or knights, to make the countermove according to the rules of play. White’s first move was to bring us here, and his envoy is probably a pawn in motion. Pawn to King four. Now it’s our turn.”

For a moment there was silence in the room, and then Connor MacLeod came forward to offer himself as the countermove. Duncan followed, and then several of the nobles. They made their offers to Methos, the Black King, accepting the Pretender’s assessment of the situation. But Jarod didn’t know how well the ancient one played, so he suggested a challenge to the other players for control of the game, best out of five matches.

He won almost all of them, but Methos conquered him four times in a row after an initial loss.

“Don’t feel too bad about it, Jarod,” the elder consoled him. “I did invent the game, after all. And I've also had a good deal longer to practice the game than you.”

But the first few moves might require the loss of initial pieces to discover how the White King played his deadly game, and that changed everything. No one wanted to go out the door knowing they might lose their heads.

So Jarod set up a chessboard in the great hall to represent all of them, and moved a white pawn into play, two spaces forward, to begin the game. It was a standard opening volley, but an equitable guess suited to the arrival to the envoy. Each of them drew lots to decide which of the black pieces on the board would represent them. Jarod kept the results to himself, and Methos made the answering move with a black pawn.

At dawn the following morning, the Immortal assembly gathered in the king’s quarters, crowding the many windows to watch as Finn MacCool rode out on a huge dappled gray Percheron, wending his way downslope to the village below. A group of people met him there, and he was hustled out of sight among the huts and ramshackle houses.

No word came about what had befallen him, but there were no fireworks in the sky to announce his death.

Unspoken relief flowed through the gathering, and they awaited White’s next move.

_Pawn to King 4, answered by the same._

Jarod set up the chessboard in the great hall, where the whole assembly could keep track of the moves as they were made.

Later that afternoon another rider emerged from the White King's castle, and waited at the foot of the slope. He was red-haired and broad-shouldered, and sat his horse with a banner in hand bearing a majestic gold crown with three bishop's miters beneath it.

_Knight to King's Bishop 3._

Methos made an answering move with another pawn, and after exchanging a few words with the rider, Maggy Moulach returned to the castle unscathed. By dusk another two pawn moves had been made, and at full dark Pan came with the last move of the day. Methos extended an invitation to the stranger in white to stay the night, and his hospitality was duly accepted.

Jarod logged the moves on the board and tallied up the possibilities in his head. He could see strategies forming up, but soon enough pieces would start falling and lives might be forfeit with them. The pawns were most at risk, and in the next few moves, both sides were guaranteed to lose some.

 

 

Duncan retired for the night hopeful that his mysterious visitor would come to him again, but after lock-in he drifted off to sleep, lying on top of his bed covers in the cool March night. He awakened in the wee hours, long before dawn, and found himself covered and no longer alone.

He didn't speak. Words were unnecessary between them. Her hands were warm as they untied his loose breeches and pushed them down his lean hips. Without warning her mouth covered his sleeping manhood, and he gasped at the sudden wet warmth of her lips and tongue. His body answered quickly, the coolness in his skin fading in the flush of heat, and when he could not stand the exquisite torment of her kisses any longer, he rolled her onto her side and brought her body against him, lifting one long, shapely leg over his shoulder.

Her pubic hair was dark like her lashes and brows, and he inhaled deeply of her wonderfully feminine scent as he returned her starved kiss. She worked magic on him drawing gasps and sighs of bliss from him, and he could no longer lie still or it would be over too soon. He nibbled the tender insides of her thighs, scraped his teeth gently against the sensitive backs of her knees, working his way down to her feet, making her follow him as he moved. They swam in the bedsheets like a pair of dolphins, smoothing against each other, hands stroking, massaging, probing, mouths working hungrily. He took his time moving upward, dallying over the flat plane of her belly, toying with the silver ring piercing her navel. Then upward he went, across her ribs while his fingers slipped between her thighs, and after a moment she let go of him and arched backward on the bed, the harshness of her in-drawn breath the only sound she made.

He felt her pleasure throbbing around his fingers, and smiled against the curve of her breast. Duncan raised his head and gazed down into her eyes, startled to see that her eyes were open and she was looking back at him. Her climax ebbed like echoing thunder, and he dove downward again, taking possession of the hardened peak he had chosen to conquer, and for the first time he allowed himself to think of her, recalling echoes of words she had written to him over the centuries, revelations of her soul. Her fingers were in his hair, trailing across his broad shoulders, over his arms, her upper thigh stroking across his hip and side as she urged him silently on.

He felt anew all the longing he’d had for her, the love that had passed between them on paper for so many centuries, and let go of the powerful control he always maintained on his soul. He could sense the expansion of his mind and heart, a filling up and overflowing of self that she caught and held and added to until he could no longer tell where his carefully constructed boundaries lay. She was inside him as no other woman had ever been, and for the first time he felt the terror and awe of love in its purest, truest form.

Tears slid from his eyes without resistance or care, and fell onto her hot skin. Her hands stroked his face, gently wiping them away as they trickled down his cheeks, then clutched at him as another climax surged through her. He lay on his side with his thigh and one hand between her legs, and met her eyes once more, drinking in her pleasure. Fire and passion glowed in the pale depths, and he rolled her onto her back with his body, his face hovering over hers.

“I love you, Indigo Fox,” he breathed against her lips. “I have for ages.” His hand moved up to touch her cheek, her scent strong on his fingers. Duncan rolled on top of her, aware of her legs rising to embrace his lean waist. “Tell me that you love me, too. Tell me with a kiss.” He undulated against her, aching for completion, staring down into those pale eyes in a dark, shadowy face kissed by moonlight, and saw her begin to withdraw, to separate her soul from his.

She lay still beneath him, and did not move to comply with his gentle demand.

After a moment, he understood, and bowed his head against hers, closing his eyes.

He started to apologize, but couldn’t make his voice work, and gently disentangled himself from her. With no small effort he lay on his back beside her, not touching her at all, but aware of the heat radiating off her naked body. He could feel his arousal still demanding fulfillment, but soon enough that would go away. He didn’t want to finish anymore, not without the connection between them that he had felt before he made the mistake of speaking.

Fox rose onto one elbow and gazed down at him, a question in her eyes, but he would not even look at her. She saw how his lower lip trembled, and then she was on her knees, straddling him, impaling herself on him, running her fingers over the thatch of dark hair covering his chest.

“Don’t,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t want it. Not like this. Not for the sake of lust. Not with you.” His eyes met hers with anger flashing in them when she did not stop her movements, but fierce determination was written on her exquisite features and he grasped at her hips, intending to push her off him.

She caught his wrists and forced them back against the bed, pinned him to prevent his interruption of the act. He tried to throw her off with his legs, bucking beneath her like an untamed stallion, but she held on. The violence escalated, charging his emotions with rage, and as he prepared to try to roll out from underneath her, he felt his body responding quickly, building to climax.

“No!” he ground out from beneath clenched teeth, but her eyes closed briefly and he felt her orgasm start, and he was lost. Against his will he thrust deeply into her, straining so hard his hips cleared the mattress, and as it began to ebb he lay back, exhausted and spent, his eyes still tightly closed.

She sat there for a long time, watching him.

When he opened his eyes at last they were filled with accusation, hurt and betrayal, and when she dismounted him, he rolled over and turned his back to her.

And when she was certain he was sleeping, she left the bed and circled it, watched him for a moment more, and then bent down to place a tender, regretful kiss on his lips. Her right hand pointed at her face to indicate self, then her arms crossed over her chest in a solo embrace, followed by a gesture toward the sleeping man. Her lips mouthed the words as she signed them, fulfilling his need in a fashion, but retaining the secret as well.

_I love you, Duncan MacLeod._

On silent, bare feet, she gathered her clothing and retreated again through the secret door in his chambers.

 

 

Early in the morning, the White Pawn named Pan rose and dressed, and called for his horse. Instead, Methos arrived to inform him that he was now a prisoner, stating the move that had captured him. Pan only shrugged and smiled, and asked for his breakfast. Methos had him moved to the dungeons and placed under guard.

Jarod studied the board, and pointed out several likely moves, all of which would involve the capture of one of Black’s pieces. Methos posted himself on one of the upper levels looking out on the island, a flat, grassy terrace at the top of one of the towers. With the aid of Jarod’s makeshift spyglass, he kept watch on the other castle for an answer, a smaller board replicating the game in play in the great hall.

At mid morning he observed several riders in white leave the distant edifice and ride toward the village. Once they arrived, a crowd began to gather, and shortly after that a brilliant display of lightning streamed upward into the clear blue sky, fingers of fire setting some of the nearby huts ablaze. Methos’s heart sank, and he made the proper move he had been dreading.

_White queen’s knight takes black pawn._

Finn MacCool was dead.

Shortly afterward a contingent of villagers appeared at the gate to fetch Maggy Moulach and Sir Oisin, the other two pieces Methos had moved into play, and the elder in the lead informed the Black King that, in future, all players set into motion would necessarily be forced to leave the castle for quarters in the village, where the battles would be fought.

He provided Methos with a set of flags that would be flown to announce the moves to players in the field, and the islanders would guide them in where such moves would take them.

Methos refused.

The villagers and the castle servants produced hidden weapons then, ranging from crossbows to modern pistols, and took Maggy and Oisin with them after wounding several of those Immortals who had been brave enough to stand in their way.

The Game went on.

Four moves later, Black had another prisoner for the dungeons, and Duncan MacLeod was put into play. He rode a white stallion out of the castle gate and into the village by the light of a torch and a waning moon, making his way down a sandy beach to avoid trampling precious crops. Upon his arrival his horse and sword were taken from him, and he was shown to a small cabin built for one on the backside of the settlement, facing the black castle.

There was food already served for him on a low table, a comfortable bed waiting where he would spend what might be his last night alive, but he didn’t feel like eating. The door of his cabin was distinctly marked with the rampant black horse that he wore on his chest, but there were no guards posted to keep him there.

He prowled the village alone, listening to the sounds of music not far away, a strange mix of eastern ancient and western modern that was both unsettling and attractive all at once. There were no boats along the shore, but the coastline itself was guarded by sentries keeping watch from small boats not far out into the water. By the time a man might get in deep enough to swim for it, he would already be dead and netted for a return trip to shore.

Duncan roamed back toward the castle, looking for another path to freedom, but there were additional sentries that direction as well. The only place he would be allowed to go without taking a mortal life was inside the boundaries of the village itself. He returned morosely, studying the layout and looking for allies in the strange war in which he found himself fighting.

He felt the warning, and in moments his gaze fell on a woman in white. She smiled at him, but it was a gesture of challenge, of defiance, and there was no warmth in it. The warning did not deter him, and he closed on her quickly.

“I’m Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” he announced boldly. “And who might you be?” He decided to be flirtatious rather than threatening, and see how far it got him.

“You may call me Artemis,” she replied silkily, and struck a seductive pose in response. “What title do you wear here?”

“Prince Tam Lin,” he grumbled. His face brightened with a suggestive leer. “So do you enjoy being a virgin goddess?”

She laughed huskily and winked at him. “Who said I was a virgin?” Easing closer, she laid a hand on his chest, stroking over the rearing silver horse. “Are you a _good_ knight? Or just mediocre?”

Duncan grinned broadly and waggled his eyebrows at her. “I’m damn good. My place or yours?”

He took her arm and escorted her back to her hut, working tiny bits of information out of her as they walked.

She was a pawn, and she had come at the invitation of the White King, who had paid her a sum of money for her part in the contest. He had promised her that none of the white players would be killed, but taken prisoner instead. They had seen no evidence of Pan’s demise nor heard reports of it from the castle servants, so she felt assured that he had been truthful with her. But he also gave them free reign to take as many heads from the black players as moves allowed, and that when Black resigned, all their lives would be forfeit. She seemed to take great pleasure in imparting that to him.

And she promised him that there was no escape, that the islanders had been in the White King’s service for a hundred years, and that their fear of him was stronger than any attachments that might be explored in the short time the game would be played. Artemis encouraged him to eat, drink and make merry in the hours he had left, and kissed him as she removed her clothes in the privacy of her hut. The invitation was blatant and hollow, and Duncan gave her a single kiss, his hands roaming roughly over her skin in a show of false hunger. She whimpered with need and closed her eyes, ready for him to deepen the foreplay, but he dropped her on the sandy floor, smiled down cruelly and gave her a wink.

“I’ve got better things to do with my time,” he told her sweetly, then turned on his heel and left.

He followed the sound of music to the village square, where a celebration of sorts seemed to be going on, with mortals gathered in large and small groups around a central platform built of wooden planks. On the lower level the musicians were gathered; in the middle large torches burned and lit the whole clearing with amber light. Above that on the top level stood a cage made of wood, carved in delicate loops and swirls that gave the appearance of an opening flower. Inside the central cone of the cage a figure swayed, clothed in flashing silver and gold. Her face was veiled except for a V-shaped eye-hole that spanned her temples, and as she swayed and undulated to the rhythm of the music she began to peel off layers of veils and fling them out the open top of the cage to the crowd.

Duncan sidled closer, wanting to see more, but there were other things that needed to be done before he enjoyed idle pleasures. He found Maggy Moulach and Sir Oisin, the black pawns that had preceded him into play, and stood with them facing the other Immortals dressed in white across the clearing. They seemed relaxed, jovial, and pleased with the atmosphere of celebration.

The Highlander felt exactly the opposite. He shared the information he had gained with his companions in black, and the three of them started off for further reconnaissance. But some of the villagers were getting rowdy and drunk, and a brawl erupted nearby with one of the fighters landing a firm right cross against another’s chin, sending him flying backward. The man crashed into Duncan and sent him into the clearing, where he sprawled at the feet of a harpist.

He felt it then, the shimmer of warning that drew his eyes upward, where the dancer froze for a moment, her eyes casting downward to meet his. The harpist gave him a shove with his foot as he rose to hands and knees, and he rolled back to the braided rope fence he had toppled over, stood with as much dignity as he could muster, and began to brush the sand off his clothes.

And when he was done he raised his eyes to the dancer again, now clad in a few tiny drapes of gleaming cloth, and watched her lift the veil from her head. Another smaller veil still covered the lower half of her face, but the white hair shining with amber lights and blue shadows told him all he needed to know.

It was Fox again, protected from recognition by other Immortals by the distance they were kept from her stage. The islanders were protecting her, hiding her, and somehow she had managed to move between castle and village unseen. And if she could do it, then so could the rest of them.

He smiled up at her coolly, and gave her a regal nod of appreciation before losing himself in the crowd. A plan was shaping up, but he would need more time to put it all together. He hoped it would be soon enough to prevent any more killings.

 

 

There was little more than an hour left before lock-in, and Jarod had to work fast. He had everything ready to put his plan into action, and all that was left was removing the appropriate players. Methos was good; he would be able to wage a good game with a handicap, and even though Jarod hadn’t gotten prior approval for his actions, he wanted to make sure that at least some of them survived.

He stood on the flat, grassy patch on the topmost peak of the castle, a light wind testing his balance and tugging at his clothes. There were three pillowcases at his feet, several lengths of rope made from twisted and knotted bed sheets and other linens, a stack of poleaxes that he had gathered from the weapons room, several lengths of lightweight nylon rope, and another stack of linens.

He picked up one of the pillowcases and peered inside it for a moment, checking the contents to make sure he directed it properly. Moving close to the edge of the cliff, he tied the case to the end of a length of rope and dangled it over the edge. It bumped softly against the sheer rock wall below, and after a few moments, it began to swing freely into the open space of a window.

Waiting hands pulled the case inside, and shortly afterward there was a tug on the rope. Jarod braced himself for the coming resistance, and when he felt the weight increase on the other end, he began to haul it up. Claudia Jardine scrabbled over the edge ten minutes later, climbing awkwardly and terrified of the dangerous height.

She sat down on the grass far away from the precipice, hugging herself and trying to recover from the scare.

“I thought you said you’d done some skydiving,” Jarod mused, noticing her trepidation. He fastened the next bag to the rope and moved to a position over another window.

“I have,” Claudia snapped back irritably. “But I had a parachute strapped to me. I don’t like climbing naked. Dying in any way is usually a painful experience, one I don’t try to repeat. Are you sure this’ll work, Jarod?”

“Oh, pretty much,” he replied casually, lowering the bag. “We’ll give it a shot anyway.”

“You sure know how to instill confidence in a girl,” Claudia remarked drily.

Jarod ignored her, hauling on the rope again as another climber scaled the cliff. Grace Chandel maneuvered herself over the top and stood beside the taller man, breathing deeply to recover from her ascent.

“You’re quite an artist, my young friend,” she breathed. “The false head you made for me to put on my pillow might just as well go into a museum. I daresay it’ll be some time before our mortal guardians realize that we’re gone, unless they’re bright enough to watch the bedclothes for signs of breathing.”

“I’m thinking they’ll notice around noon,” Jarod figured aloud. “But by then, you’ll be long gone.” He lowered the last bag, and when the makeshift rope tightened, he dug in his heels and threw the free end of the rope to the women to act as a counterweight. Between them they drew up the last of their party, and Kit O’Brady topped the cliff, sneezing and stuffy and gasping for breath.

He let the others haul him over the top and lay exhausted on the cool, moon-frosted grass. “I’ll be so deliriously happy to get out of this god-forsaken place,” he moaned. “I can hardly breathe with all of you about.”

“I find it interesting that you’re allergic to the recognition sensation,” Jarod observed. “I’m sure it stimulates the capillaries in your nasal passages and--”

“Let’s get on with this, shall we?” Kit interrupted impatiently, slowly rising to a sitting position. “Just explain how the hell you’re going to get us off this rock, eh, boyo?”

Jarod stowed the rope neatly to one side and went to the bundles of poles. He talked as he worked, laying the axe shafts in a semi-triangular pattern and lashing them together. He described methods of control, how to take advantage of updrafts, landing patterns, and a variety of other airborne maneuvers, and when he finished his spiel he had the skeleton of a primitive hang glider on the ground before him. As he started lashing the dark green silken sheets he had appropriated from Duncan MacLeod’s bed to the frame, Grace asked him if he was certain the craft would be flight-worthy.

“Of course. I tested the theories with paper airplanes in my room,” he admitted innocently. “Just keep headed south and you should reach land by morning. They won’t be easy to steer, but they’ll get you where you’re going.”

“So you’re pretty good on one of these things, eh?” asked Claudia skeptically. He built the craft in near darkness, making each movement as swiftly and expertly as if he’d done it a thousand times.

“This’ll be my first time to fly one in person,” he stated proudly. “But I’ve wanted to try it since the first time I saw one sailing above Venice Beach just a few weeks ago.”

He did not see the shock register on the three faces watching him. Kit peered over the edge of the cliff and shuddered in horror.

“I hope you’re all the genius Mac says you are,” he grumbled softly.

When Jarod finished the first wing, he handed it over to Claudia, instructing her to familiarize herself with the framework and hold onto it until the others were completed. He didn’t want a sudden gust of wind to send it over the edge and alert the guards at their posts on the wall. In a little over an hour he had four of them finished, and he gave them all a few final words of instruction.

“It’s going to be hard to tell which direction you’re going when you’re over open water, but you have to keep yourselves aimed south. Stay together as much as you can, and keep quiet until the islands are out of sight. After that, you can talk to each other, and good luck.” He hefted his glider easily, felt the wind rising up beneath the silk, pushing at it, urging him away. “And you know what to do when you get to friendly territory, right?”

“Contact the Wataru,” said Grace firmly, “and give them Tiamet’s message.”

“And call Miss Parker and Joe Dawson,” added Claudia, repeating the phone numbers Jarod had given her.

“And I shall loft a dram of fragrant Irish whiskey in your honor, if this thing takes me more than a hundred feet over the water. I’d much rather have the drink in _me_ than me in _the drink_.”

“You’re not coming with us, then?” Grace asked again. “You could be putting yourself in grave danger by staying.”

Jarod shook his head with a patient smile and wished them well, sending them off. Claudia was first, swooping downward and catching an updraft that carried her silently, gracefully away, and then Grace as well. Kit closed his eyes and leaped away, clinging to the handlebar so hard his knuckles turned white. A muffled, “Shit!” barked out with a sneeze followed him into the air, and Jarod chuckled to himself as he watched them disappear into the night, hoping they would be all right.

He thought of Tiamet as he angled slightly westward, remembering her reluctant acceptance of his idea. She had not been willing to try flight, and cautioned him to be careful while she took her chances in the Game. Jarod cleared the precipice with a smooth, powerful leap. Wind filled the sail above him, and he held his body stiff, hooking his feet on the tail rack to keep him horizontal and reduce wind drag. To the right he circled, climbing steadily higher until he could see the whole island grouping, a black patch on black water sparkling with reflected moonlight, a sea of diamonds washing an onyx shore.

He followed the inward curve of the main island northward, calculating distances and memorizing what few details of landscape he could see. The village on the eastern shore was lit up with torches, and he cruised silently over the rows of well-groomed farmland to observe. He swung out eastward over the water to a nearby islet, considering whether he might land there and do further reconnaissance from a safer distance, but as he passed over the heavily forested shape he saw that a space had been cleared and flattened on the central plain, and inlaid with large black and white squares, probably of polished marble, in the exact formation of a life-sized chess board.

The Pretender decided against landing there, and flew back toward the northernmost peak, scouting out a suitable place to land. There was no plateau on that peak, no easy choice for set-down, but after the third pass to test wind patterns he selected a small ledge facing the water, in the shelter of a taller peak. It wouldn’t be easy to set down there -- only a seasoned pilot would ever attempt such a feat -- but it was the best strategic choice, so he eased in, following the rock wall closely, edging closer, sliding his feet out of the rack and curling his body up tightly. Suddenly the wind died, cut off by the shape of the wall, and he was falling. He swung his legs out like a gymnast and touched his toes on the ledge, letting the momentum carry him and his craft forward. It was deadly still there, not a breath of wind, and Jarod struggled to balance himself with the heavy glider.

He reached out for a handhold on the wall and steadied himself, then began to study the formations for a suitable place to stow his craft. At the end of the ledge he found a natural chimney cut into the rock, filled with the remains of old birds’ nests, which he dug out with his toe to a suitable depth, and forced the frame down into the hole, keeping the cloth against the wall to keep it stabilized. He weighted it down with a few large rocks he found farther up, and then began his descent to the nearest window.

For hours he climbed until he found an empty room, and after easing inside, he rummaged through the closet and put together an outfit that would help him blend in. If he kept to the lower floors where the mortals gathered, he could learn a great deal of information before making his move into the circle of the other Immortals who dressed in white. He figured he had less than three days at most to accomplish his mission, and checkmate the white king with a bishop’s defense.

 

 

There were telephones in the rooms, television sets and other modern conveniences, all powered by an electrical generator deep in the bowels of the castle. Jarod made no use of them, thinking that some might be monitored, and he began to prowl the corridors in search of a security or monitoring system. What he found made him angry and upset. Hidden cameras in the black castle made public every action of every player, and he knew that someone -- perhaps several people -- had watched him make love to Tiamet every night since his capture.

He’d had enough of living under a microscope at The Centre, where his every act, even those most basic and intimate, had been observed, dissected, catalogued and review by teams of scientists, and now he was providing entertainment for an audience in the same fashion. But he was thankful that the transmissions were visual only, and didn’t include audio. Apparently, the White King wanted to watch his opponents squirm, but he didn’t want to be privy to any strategy that might help him counter in advance. He wanted a clean game.

Only this time, Black wasn’t playing by the rules.

Jarod explored the castle’s lower floors in hope of finding a weakness he could exploit, but Fate threw him a curve as the chef snagged him to assist with a special delivery. In the kitchen Jarod was drafted into bringing a serving cart upstairs to the queen, and he couldn’t shirk the duty without looking suspicious, so he went along with it. Up the massive steps carved directly out of volcanic rock he trudged, lifting one end of the cart while the chef himself carried the other, onto the landing where the upper apartments were located, and down a wide corridor.

He could feel the other Immortals all around him and knew that they were aware of him as well, but in that place there would be no seeking out another as they approached. Each of them would only glance up to see who was coming, since contests would be forbidden within the walls of the White King’s castle. But that would also be his downfall, since none of them would expect to see an Immortal in a position of servitude. It would be an instant tip-off, and he was certain that he would lose his head shortly afterward.

“I should get back to my other errand,” he offered pleasantly to the chef, backing away from the cart as the other man neared the door, his arm curled around a champagne bucket.

“In a moment,” the chef ordered crisply. He approached the door, knocked and quickly swung it open.

Jarod pushed the cart resignedly into the room, immediately starting to consider options that would enhance his intact escape. He was familiar enough with the castle layout after his initial exploration to know the quickest way out, and the trees close to the entrance might provide him brief cover, but the island was a finite place where he would eventually be found again. And he couldn’t risk being held captive when Miss Parker and her Centre goons arrived to take him into custody.

So he pretended that he was a servant and presented the food properly, locked the brakes into place to keep the cart from rolling, and when he was done he stood silently by and looked to the chef for dismissal.

There was a woman lying in the bed, her dark hair mussed from sleep, and she laughed huskily, her voice colored with smoke and pleasure.

“You can go, Maurice,” she told the chef, “but _you_ stay. We weren’t properly introduced in Tokyo, but I must say I enjoyed the view.” She flipped back the covers and slid out of bed, a short satin gown hugging her curves and showing off her legs as she padded toward him.

“I won’t ask how you got here,” she told him warmly, “and I won’t tell His Highness if you play your cards right.” She sidled up close and ran her hands up his arms, obviously enjoying the feel of the muscles beneath.

“What did you have in mind?” he murmured, aware from her behavior that she wanted him for sex, remembering that she had already seen him naked in the community bath in the Soaplands.

“You already know what I want.” She raised one leg, stroking the inside of it against his thigh and hooking it over his waist.

“What guarantees do I have that you won’t turn me over to the White King once you’re done with me?”

She slid her arms up over his neck and nipped his chin playfully. “All that depends on how good you are to me. Ol’ King Cole paid me to collect the proper bodies, but I hate to waste talent. Do we have a deal?”

Jarod smiled tightly. He was already planning what he would do to her. He could satisfy her in several hundred ways without ever actually having sex with her, and he profoundly hoped that would be enough. But if it didn’t work out in his favor, he knew other things he could do that would allow him to subdue her and escape without alerting any of the others.

And as long as he didn’t have to jump out of a window and reanimate painfully some time later, he thought he might just get out with his dignity -- and his hide -- intact.

 

 

Jarod sat in the dank cell, collecting his thoughts. Things had not gone as planned, and his successful seduction of Felicia Martins, as she had introduced herself afterward, had landed him in the dungeon. The cell was carved right out of the rock, with thick steel bars set directly into stone for the facing wall, and a door of solid steel that would hold him inside nicely. He had explored the tiny room in-depth, and aside from having a key or some other device for picking a lock, he could not escape.

So he rested. Whenever Felicia was ready for more, she would send for him, and when she was done, he would be summarily returned to his prison.

He calculated the time at about noon the day after his arrival, and when the guards came for him he was already looking for another avenue of escape. But aside from killing or seriously injuring his guardians, there was no way out. They came for him eight at a time, binding him in chains and fetters, and keeping him in the center of their group.

This time, however, they did not take him to Felicia's chambers, but to the ones next door.

The group was admitted, and in a moment he stood before a slender, handsome man of forty-something years in appearance, with small hands and feet, a thick mane of dark hair brushed back from his face, and a robe worthy of the Pope, made of white silk embroidered elegantly in gold thread.

"I don't miss much, stranger," the king began quietly. "And Felicia was far too satisfied at breakfast this morning to have just had pleasant dreams. No one else in the castle has been able to accommodate her to her high standards, thus I deduced there had been another unexpected player thrust into our midst. So I inquired."

Jarod studied the man intently, certain he recognized that face from somewhere.

"We tracked your history somewhat before we took you," the king went on, "and it seems that you were only recently made one of us. Prior to that, you were an employee of TakanoCorp, in their foreign financing department. Frankly, I didn't expect this much resourcefulness, or adaptation to the Game so quickly. You interest me."

The Pretender's gaze flicked away for a moment to the surrounding room. There were groups of very old black and white photographs on the mantel, one of which Jarod recognized from the chess books he'd been permitted to study as a boy at The Centre. On a large table before the fireplace was a game board, with huge, hand-sized pieces, displaying the game in progress. And at the far end of the room was another chess board, made of ebony and mother-of-pearl, that had cost a fortune in its day.

That game board was set up and ready for play, and he was sure the White King would not be able to resist a game with him, especially knowing that the older Immortal had watched him play the tournament he had lost to Methos. He smiled then, and rather than confirm or deny the king's opening statement, he declared an opening move.

"King's pawn to King four."

The White King smiled back. "I didn't ask for a game."

Jarod stood patiently in his chains, without making a move to resist them or show how uncomfortable he felt in them. "I can play you blindfolded, twenty games at a time, each game in the style of a known chess master." He could see the spark of interest flare up in the other man's eyes, and pushed it further. "Or I can play you the game we're already working, in the style of Paul Morphy."

From the reaction in the other man's face, he knew his guess was correct. Paul Morphy had been a charismatic, world-class chess champion in the 1800's, whose string of successes had earned him fame and fortune, but after a while, the lack of an equal in opposition had driven him mad. In his final few years he refused anyone to even mention the game in his presence, and when he died, Jarod guessed that the other Game in which he had suddenly found himself forced to participate had revived his interest in chess. And in order to keep his head and remain in control, he had established himself there on that island, supported by the islanders who feared and revered him, and protected him from the other players.

"Not possible," Morphy declared hotly.

"Morphy was a man far ahead of his time," Jarod mused calmly. "But maybe time's caught up to him now. I've issued the challenge. You've seen me play. I'll play you in your own style, and beat you at it, as many games as you choose. But with carved pieces, not real people. And if I win, you let us all go free."

The White King motioned toward Jarod with one hand, controlled anger gleaming in his eyes, and the guards hustled him back to prison. He lay down on the bunk and began reviewing games in his head, memorizing the standard ploys, the feints and distractions, the sensibility of strategy, the personality of the matches he had studied. With his eyes closed he turned each page of the books he had held as a boy, recalling everything he would need to win, and hoping it would be enough. He would play as Paul Morphy, but matched against a mad Paul Morphy, it threw enough uncertainties into the outcome that Jarod wasn't absolutely certain he would win.

Unless he played on a level field.

 

 

Dawn had brought a flurry of moves from both castles, and by evening there were riders posted at the feet of the mountains to carry the moves indicated on the flags down to the village, where they would be played out. When Black took a White piece, the player would be carted off to the black castle, and when White captured, the other Black players were held back and another beheading would take place.

Duncan MacLeod decided there would be no more.

He appropriated several farm implements and shared them with his compatriots. The next time a black piece fell, he or she would not go down without a real war.

In his hut that night he slept fitfully, and just before dawn he roused to the warning that another of his kind was near. He threw back the furs that had been stitched together for a blanket and reached for the scythe he had kept under his pillow. When the bamboo door swung open, Indigo Fox stepped quickly inside and closed it again, fixing him with an angry stare.

 _Why didn't you leave?_ she demanded silently with her hands. _The next move will kill you._

"Not if I can help it," he shot back aloud. He stood up, advancing on her swiftly. "I won't just lie down and die in this game. You know me better than that."

 _But you could have saved yourself!_ she insisted, her face revealing her grief and frustration.

"I couldn't," he assured her. "There's no way off this island without someone's cooperation, and the natives serve their master well. I don't know what they get out of the deal, but the White King certainly has them under his thumb."

 _They get to live in the presence of magic,_ she returned unhappily. _And no matter how I try to teach them differently, they believe they are privileged to serve him._

"What about you?" Duncan asked more softly. "They seem to be very protective of you as well."

Fox looked distinctly uncomfortable. _The White King is the source of their entertainment, their wealth, and their continued isolation. I provide them counsel, medical help and compassion. I am their Mother._

"The White Queen."

 _No._ She shook her head emphatically. _This was once my island. I built the first castle, the black one, when I finished my apprenticeship with the Lady Rebecca. Every generation I would leave to allow my memory to fade, and when I believed I was forgotten, I would return again to my home. Only once, a hundred years ago, when I returned there was a new master here. He saved them from the Soviet regime and all its terror and poverty, and they are loyal to him._

“They enjoy the kills, then,” Duncan surmised. “So why do you stay?”

She answered brusquely after a long pause. _His Highness and I made a deal. After I defeated him in a match, he killed all the players, and threatened to destroy everyone on the island if I left. I promised him that I would stay to protect them. Shortly afterward he began to collect teams of Immortals to play out his games for real. Only at the end of the game, all the players will die and he began collecting a new set of pieces._

“He must be stopped,” Duncan said aloud. He stepped forward and took her hands in his, giving them a gentle, meaningful squeeze. “And I’m sure you’ve tried. But maybe you didn’t have the proper backup before. This time you do.”

The Highlander saw tears gathering in her eyes, saw her trying to swallow her emotions down, and the trembling smile she turned up to him.

And he was lost.

He took her face in his hands and moved to kiss her, but she pulled away from him and stood watching him warily.

 _We should keep our heads about us,_ she warned.

“Fox, why do you run from me?” he demanded gently. “I’ve never had a lover like you, not in all my 400 years. You seem to have this gift of reaching down inside me, touching me where no one else could, all through the words in your letters. I want more than that from you now. Especially now! I fell in love with you a long time ago, and I believe you feel the same for me. Why do you push me away?”

 _It is safer for us to keep distance between us,_ she signed back sadly, _and not tempt Fate._

“It’s too late,” he murmured. “We’ve already been together.” Duncan frowned, remembering the unpleasantness of their last close encounter. “You might as well have raped me in my room. Why did you treat me like that? Did I hurt you somehow?”

She shook her head. _You wanted too much. You asked for something I cannot give._

He pulled back a little. “Not until this is over, perhaps. But I know you, remember? I’ve gone diving in your soul, and I know all the secret places in there. Most of them, anyway.”

Fox took a deep, quick breath and glanced away. _Yes, you know me, Duncan. But remember, ‘there can be only One.’_

She was blushing, her eyes bright, her breathing shallow. He wondered if she was excited, if her admonitions was a strange form of foreplay, or if she was genuinely afraid for him. But he found her speech arousing, reaching into his soul as she always did, and he took a step closer, forcing her back against the rough wall of the ramshackle hut.

“That doesn’t have to be true, and you know it.”

The woman stared up at him in the light of a lamp near his bed, and he saw that her eyes were green in the amber glow from the flame. He leaned closer, felt her hands come up and press against his chest, resisting him. A tear spilled down her cheek and she gasped as he pinned her against the wall with his body.

Desire burned brightly in her eyes, but she was fighting it, holding herself stiff as his hands began to roam over her hips, upward across her ribs to her breasts, lingering on her rigid nipples to assure him that she was, indeed, aroused, then sweeping upward along her neck and into her hair.

She shook her head as his lips came down on her throat, pawing the earth floor with her sandal-shod feet in an effort to push away from him, push harder into the wall.

“Don’t fight it, Fox,” he breathed against the curve of her jaw. “Let yourself love me. It’ll be all right, I promise. We’ll both get out of this alive, and then we’ll have forever.” He skimmed her smooth, flawless cheek with his lower lip, his eyes closed, enjoying the feel of her body half-heartedly struggling against his, reveling in the clean, natural scent of her pale hair tickling his nose.

He lifted her up in his arms and she sagged against him, her left arm lightly encircling his neck. When he laid her on the bed she was crying silently, and she let go of him to cover her face with her hands. Duncan took a moment to remove his trousers before returning to his bed, easing the furs over them to ward off the light chill of early spring.

He pulled her hands away and leaned over her, urging her to look at him, and waited. His left hand moved languorously over her belly, fingers trailing in slow circles. She was already excited, but if he rushed things he knew the act would be as unsatisfying for both of them as it had been before.

“Remember what you told me in your last letter, Fox?” he murmured, gazing hungrily down at her tear-stained beauty. “ ‘Sometimes I lie in bed and wonder what it would be like to lie for one night beside my oldest friend and hold nothing back.’ I’m willing, my love. If you want to lie here and talk, then we’ll talk. If you want to enjoy that ‘ancient ballet’ you wrote about, I’ve got my dancing costume on. But I’ll expect nothing less than your soul, since I’m giving you mine.”

Her face twisted into a grimace of pain and she arched upward, wrestling with her reluctant heart. She was sobbing now, her eyes tightly shut against him. He felt her emotions raging inside his own soul, but above them lay the golden certainty of righteousness that gave him his strength.

He held her close to him while she thrashed about on the bed, at once clinging to him and pushing him away. His eyes closed and he began to recite a poem he had written to her ages earlier, when he felt the first stirrings of affection for the person behind the pen, when he was still wondering if the writer was a man or a woman. And as he spoke the lines, he laid his head against her chest and listened to her pounding heart with his eyes closed, until she lay still. He raised his head and finished the last verse looking into her eyes, watching the pleading turn into acceptance, and finally into incandescence.

His hand moved gently across her body, pushing clothing aside. She was tired from her battle, he knew, and her climax would come quickly. But he wanted the kiss she had denied him, believing it would be the sweetest moment of his life. He obeyed her hands tugging at him, pulling him over her, and glanced downward, one of his hands reaching between them to position himself for consummation.

A ragged sigh escaped her as he pushed slowly inside, and he felt her fingernails digging into his shoulders as she demanded more. If he let her set the rhythm it would be done too soon between them, so he caught her face in his palms and met her tortured gaze. Something shifted then, something that battered down a wall inside him with a single velvet blow, and he felt himself opening up, losing all sense of self, all boundaries of skin. He was vaguely aware of the exquisite sensation of filling her body with his, of the wrinkles of cloth pressing against his skin, of the firmness of her breasts flattening beneath the weight of his chest. He felt her ribs moving against his own, her legs embracing his waist, and breathed in the scent of coitus, strong and heady in the air. Her sighs were music, the feel of his name on her soundless lips just a breath against his cheek.

He could feel it all, every movement, every tensing and relaxing of her muscles, in such intense detail that he felt as if he had never made love before, and yet separated from it as if the act itself was inconsequential. She came up to him, eyes open, lips parted, and touched his mouth with hers. Tiny blue sparks danced between them, the crackle of lightning audible as little flashes of lightning danced over their skin. She drank in his exhalations scented with ozone, breathing with him in unified rhythm as electricity curled away from their bodies, until both of them wrenched together with a repeated pulse of bliss that burned away all thought, all pain and hunger, and left them clinging to each other in silent awe, eyes closed, mouths still and perfectly joined as the lightning died away.

Duncan opened his eyes a moment later without ending the kiss, and found her looking back at him. He smelled smoke and tore his satisfied gaze from hers in search of the source, and found that the straw mattress beneath them was smoldering. He rose and yanked her off the bed in one swift motion, then used the fur blanket to beat out the fire. When he finished, he turned to her and found her standing still, her face filled with color, her clothing disheveled and giving full evidence to what they had just done together. Wisps of smoke curled away from her _kimono_ at the hips and collar, and Duncan couldn’t help smiling.

“Well, that’s a first for me,” he said merrily. “I thought you were hot the first time I saw you, but really, Fox! I had no idea.”

He took her in his arms after checking to make certain none of her clothing was on fire, and held her closely, her head fitting perfectly just beneath his chin.

“This is something special, my love,” he said aloud, closing his eyes to the shabby room. “What we have between us is immortal.”

She clutched at him for a moment, then stepped back and met his curious gaze. Her hands lifted and stroked his face tenderly, then began to dance the words she could not say aloud. _This is magic, Duncan, but the age of magic is fading into a memory. There is no time for us here, not with the White King in power. And only I can stop him._ She backed away and adjusted her clothes, and when she turned her eyes back to his, she was smiling, her white teeth gleaming in her dark face.

The love and pride shining out from her nearly blinded him, and he reached for her again, ready for more.

But before he could touch her, she was out the door and racing away, and he wrapped himself in the singed furs to follow. By the time he stepped out into the gray dawn she was gone. He knew where she would be going, so he returned to the hut and dressed quickly, the scythe tucked into the back of his tunic beneath the short cape he had been given to ward off the chill.

He jogged to the northern perimeter of the village and sized up the guards waiting just beyond, plotting just how he would break through their ranks without having to kill any of them. As the sun rose a flicker of color on the slopes beyond caught his eye, and he squinted to study the far-off pennant signaling the next move.

_White knight takes Black knight._

It was time for him to die.

 

 

Felicia Martins studied the board, smiling to herself. The servants who posted the moves on the banners didn’t know His Highness hadn’t placed the white horse on that square, and they didn’t care. She knew who the black piece represented, and when she saw the opening she decided to take it. Duncan MacLeod had almost taken her head once, had interfered with her plan to kill Richie Ryan years earlier, but now she would have her vengeance.

She left the king’s chambers for her own next door, and sent for her boy-toy for a celebratory romp. When the guards informed her that he was already engaged, she was furious, and demanded to know who had him. With petulant disappointment fomenting into anger, she strode into the White King’s chambers unannounced and confronted her host hotly.

“How dare you take him without asking me!” she snarled. “He’s mine! I caught him.”

“And didn’t tell me,” Morphy shot back disinterestedly. “I should have your head for that.”

Felicia’s mouth closed and pressed into a thin line of silent fury, her eyes narrowed at the man in white robes, but she said nothing. Her peripheral vision took in the several chess tables being set up in the spacious room, and she saw the tall figure dressed now in black robes standing by the window, looking out at the village below.

“Just let me have him back when you’ve finished with him,” she snapped. “And I’d appreciate it if his head was still attached. I rather like it there.”

Morphy waved his hand negligently at her in dismissal, and turned to his guest by the window.

“Shall we?” he asked politely.

Jarod turned slightly toward him and commented idly, “I wouldn’t have taken the black knight just yet. The Black King will have you in seven.”

“What?” Morphy rushed to the large chess board and saw the move that had been made without his approval, and his fair face mottled with rage. He roared to the guards posted outside, and demanded horses be saddled. Moments later he was riding out of the castle with his prisoner and his queen in tow, leading the troops out of the castle personally as his anger intensified.

He arrived to find the village in turmoil, and the black players were taking a heavy toll on their captors. They fought valiantly with farm implements and the swords of fallen foes, but they were only five and their opponents were many. Through sheer numbers the islanders overwhelmed them, and as Morphy rode up to the village square he saw the move being played out according to his rules of the Game.

Duncan MacLeod was on his knees, his arms bound behind his back, a bloody cut running from his forehead down his temple and down his cheek to his chin. There were other wounds on his arms, and the horse symbol he wore on his chest had been sliced in two, the cloth saturated with gore. He roared with impotent rage, and all around him his fallen compatriots were gathered to watch.

Tor Somerset still held off a small group of villagers with a long staff, but he laid down his weapon voluntarily when it became clear that they had no chance of succeeding. He begged the mortals to give up the madness of their master's bidding, saddened by the imminent loss of his old friend, and he jostled his way through the crowd to get closer, hoping for some miracle at the last moment that would save MacLeod. But his hopes faded as he caught sight of the White King's face when he rode into the crowd.

Paul Morphy raised his hand and called the beheading to a halt.

"This is not my move," he snarled, pointing venomously at Felicia Martins. "She has done this against my will. I would have taken at least three more before this, and now I proclaim that my queen shall be put into motion instead. Send your elder to the black castle to inform Finvarra. Queen to queen two, not knight takes knight. And say nothing of my plans."

He sat his horse until he saw the flag on the distant castle change, and waited for the next rider in black to arrive in the village.

Shima Wataru sat on an elegant Arabian mare decked out in black silk trappings that bore everywhere the mark of her silver crown. As she rode up she moved as close to the white king as she could get, meeting his gaze haughtily, and with a glance at her younger friend still kneeling on the ground, his wounds now completely healed, she addressed her opponent with certainty.

"Check in eight moves, Highness. Queen to king one." She dismounted and strode over to Duncan, gently pushing away the villagers' restraining hands, and quickly undid the ropes that bound his arms to his sides. He staggered to his feet and shrugged off the loosened coils, dusting off his clothing with a relieved, grateful glance to his old friend.

Then his dark eyes flashed with fury as he regarded the White King observing them.

"You won't win," he promised the man in white robes. Duncan's eyes caught a movement of shadow and turned toward it, noticing for the first time the man in black among the king's personal soldiers. He made no motion to acknowledge his presence and did not speak to him, but Jarod nodded in agreement with the Highlander's bold statement.

"If we lose, you kill us," stated Tor as he stepped out into the small open space between the other black players and the White King. "But what if we win? Do you still kill us?"

"He kills everyone, Tor," Duncan returned without waiting for a reply from the king. "The white players are beheaded for his pleasure when he's done with them, too. And then he finds another Immortal stupid enough to believe his lies, who'll hunt enough of us to play another game."

Felicia spoke up with a superior smile on her lips. "You're good at propaganda, Duncan. You should've been a politician. I've already got the money he promised in my Swiss bank account. I check on it every day."

"Through a computer link that he monitors," said Jarod casually. "He's already got your account numbers, your passwords, everything he needs to acquire your fortune once he's gotten you out of the way."

Morphy turned with a snarl to stare at the Pretender, a silent warning in his eyes.

"Take him back!" Morphy growled to his guards. "Hold him in his cell until I decide what to do with him."

"You're going to lose," Jarod returned quietly. "To me, to the Black King. This is a team you can't best, and your only way to win over us is to cheat."

Morphy cried out in mindless rage and jerked the reins to drive his horse closer to the Pretender's. He lashed out with his whip, aiming at the other man's face, but Jarod's longer reach prevented the blow from landing at all, catching Morphy's wrist and twisting, forcing his grip to loosen enough that Jarod could wrest the horsewhip from him. He flung it out into the crowd and repeated, "You can't win, Morphy. Not in an _honorable_ match."

The White King's face paled with rage, and he goaded his horse forward, seething as he fought to control his fury. He rode back toward his castle with the rest of his guard and his prisoner behind him, until they reached a wide stretch of beach near the base of the castle. Morphy pulled up, frowning at the figure that stood there, waiting for him to arrive.

"What do you want?" he demanded hotly. He could hear the other riders catching up to him, and he wasn't anxious for any of the rest of them to witness the conversation.

Indigo Fox threw off the black hood that covered her hair and gazed up at him accusingly.

 _I offer you a queen sacrifice to end this game,_ she replied with her hands.

He smiled coldly. "The black king hasn't made such a move," he reminded her. "And I thought you were above sacrificing others to save yourself."

Her gaze hardened with disapproval, then softened with graceful acceptance of her resolve. _I will give you my head, willingly, if you release the others today._

Morphy waved the other riders toward the castle, and four of the guards split off to escort the man in black back to his cell. The others waited to one side, watching and waiting, glancing behind them to see if anyone else was coming.

Three men and two women dressed in black were approaching from the village, with a straggling crowd of islanders moving slowly up behind them.

"I will take your head whenever I choose," Morphy growled back unpleasantly.

 _I thought you were a better man than this,_ she signed angrily. _Your father was just as brilliant as you, but he knew the quality of mercy. You should have been the best. Now you are among the worst. I challenge you, young one! For once, play by the rules._

"You have thousands of years of practice on me, Indigo," he shot back, his right hand unconsciously touching the sword that he wore at his left side. "Don't forget, I know who you are." His eyes narrowed as he let the threat of blackmail sink in.

She nodded, her face impassive, calm. _And I know who you are, son. By the rules I should not interfere. But by the rules, you should issue honest challenges singly, as all the rest do. I have never before held a sword in battle. You will have a distinct advantage over me if you accept._

Morphy glanced over his shoulder at the new arrivals, his face coloring as he pictured them all believing him to be a coward. He couldn't tolerate that, so he dismounted and handed the reins to one of his guards, drew his sword and approached his opponent.

 _You will free them?_ she demanded.

"I always keep my promises, don't I?" he said with a grin.

Fox gazed at him disapprovingly, and shook her head. _I would see them loaded into boats before I die._

The White King ambled to his captain, spoke briefly to him, and the other man rode off. Within an hour, several small boats had arrived and all of the remaining Immortals gathered together. Fox watched them as they motored away, seaward toward the outer ring of islands. She sighed with relief, removed her cape and knelt slowly in the sand.

 _You have kept your promise, and now I shall keep mine,_ she signed. _I promised you a queen sacrifice._

Morphy chuckled softly to himself and raised his blade. "You always did keep your word, Mother," he mused, pulling his arms upward to add momentum to the strike.

 

 

Duncan MacLeod stood on the far shore, hidden from view by the trees. The guards that held him kept him from running onto the beach, and he knew that the distance between himself and the main island would not allow his voice to reach her. All he could do was stand helplessly by and watch as Fox gave her life to save them, not knowing that her death would be in vain.

He saw the White King's sword rise, saw the flash of blinding silver as the sun glinted off the blade, and as it came down the Highlander cried out with his loss, her name a scream of agony on his lips.

The guards let him go, and Methos came forward to stand by his young friend, embracing him to help him keep his feet.

"Who was she?" he asked gently. "One of us?"

A brilliant display of lightning in a cloudless sky gave answer to that, and Methos did not ask anything further as Duncan began to weep bitterly, unable to look at the tiny figures across the channel, his ears assaulted by the sound of her fruitless death.

Moments later the pair of Immortals were hustled toward the interior of the island, and they stepped out of the trees and thick underbrush into an artificial clearing paved with large squares of black and white stones.

Under armed duress they took up their positions and waited for the White King to arrive with the black bishop called Phooka.

He arrived with pomp and ceremony, accompanied by a large contingent of villagers, and took his place on the board, his sword at his side.

"Finish the game, Father Phooka," he demanded from across the board, "though you have a distinct handicap since you're missing three of your pieces. Where are they, anyway?"

"They could be anywhere by now," the Pretender responded lightly. "But I imagine Mr. O'Brady is probably in a bar somewhere, celebrating his escape." Jarod took up his spot on the board beside Methos with a bitter smile. He hadn't known about the other Immortal, or he would have figured her into the equation somehow, and part of him felt responsible for her death.

The White King laughed softly. "Then I shall catch up to him later and make him a king, eh? That would be a quick game. Helios, pawn to knight four."

The white player advanced, glancing at the three of his teammates that had been captured by black. They stood behind the black players, just off the board, watching smugly. But Helios -- also known as Kenny -- combed his scruffy blond hair back from his face and met the angry eyes of his mentor, Amanda, standing as black queen's rook. Kenny looked every bit the adolescent child, but luck, a devious nature and murder had helped him survive for over 800 years. When Felicia Martins had first approached him about playing in that game, he decided it would be fun. Now, though, he wasn't so sure.

He had a bad feeling about the way the situation was shaping up, and the things Duncan MacLeod had said about the White King. It was the sort of underhanded, dishonest thing that Kenny would do himself, and he didn't want to die. Only now that he was in the chess game, he couldn't find a way out.

"Your turn, Black," called Morphy gaily.

Methos and Jarod exchanged a glance, and both replied in unison, "Knight takes pawn."

Duncan's grieving gaze turned to Kenny's worried face, and he advanced, cutting diagonally across the board to the boy's square.

The Highlander waved Kenny away, refusing to look at him further.

Kenny heaved a sigh of relief and walked off the board through the forest of black pieces, and sat down on the grass behind them.

"Marcus Constantine, knight takes knight," called Morphy.

The ancient Roman soldier regarded the Highlander and briefly touched the short sword he wore at his hip. He advanced to the proper square, laid his hand on his opponent's shoulder with an encouraging half-smile, and allowed the black piece to walk off the board without taking his head.

Duncan MacLeod took his place behind the white pieces, aware of the murmur of the crowd's displeasure, and the angry look on the White King's face.

"Queen takes knight," chimed Jarod and Methos again.

Tiamet glanced back at Jarod hopefully, and replaced the white piece peacefully.

Five moves later, the White King began to perspire and fidget on his square.

Three moves after that he was pacing, his hands flexing at his sides. Black was encroaching all around him, and he could see the inevitable coming, with no way to stop it. He was losing, and badly.

"Check, in one," called Methos, taunting.

Morphy stopped pacing, flung his head up and glowered at the older Immortal across the board. "Queen takes rook!" he shouted desperately, grasping at his hair.

Felicia Martins advanced with a broad smile on her face. She drew her sword and charged Amanda Darieux, ready for an easy kill, but Ceirdwyn, the black queen's pawn, stepped in close enough as Felicia passed to jostle her off-stride, and the white queen stumbled, lost her footing and went down at Amanda's feet. A battle royal ensued that knocked other players off their squares and carried the two women out into the audience. Villagers scattered and ran for their boats, and the melee escalated. Black and white players alike went for their swords, and some of those disarmed ones fled for the shore as well, intent on getting out of harm's way before something important was lopped off in the brawl.

But the water surrounding the volcanic island was suddenly choked with boats of all sizes and shapes, manned by a nondescript race of people wearing colorful turbans. They came ashore bearing guns and herded everyone in their path to water's edge, searching the faces of villagers and Immortals alike for familiar ones.

Methos strode across the board with Jarod at his side, and backed the startled White King up against the Highlander who had moved up behind him.

"Checkmate," said Duncan. "You lose."

Within minutes the Wataru had rounded up all the participants and separated them into groups. Mortals and Immortals alike were shuttled back to the main island, leaving only a small group of black players to deal with the White King.

Methos glanced around at the beautiful setting, the mountain peaks rising up in the background, the vibrant green of trees, brush and flowers surrounding the neatly paved game board. It was lovely, and had it not been for the deadly nature of the game he had just played, he might have entertained the thought of playing another game with willing participants who all walked away once mate had been called. But now it would be forever spoiled by the memories attached to it, and he promised himself to stay long enough on the island to see the board completely destroyed, with flowers planted in its place.

"There are rules," he began quietly, his eyes sliding over to regard the other Immortal's panic-stricken face. "We all must abide by them, or everything becomes chaos."

"Let me go. Please!" Morphy begged.

Duncan pulled the other man's sword free of its scabbard and handed it to Methos.

Methos, in turn, offered the blade to Jarod. "It was more your game than mine," he explained, "and you played it just as I would have."

Jarod stared at the blade, and then at Morphy's face. He shook his head. Your friend Tor told me that he's never taken a head. I think I'll try that philosophy, and see if I can make it work for me, too."

He clapped Methos on the shoulder, his face solemn with acceptance, and strode away toward the waiting boats that would take him back to Tiamet, and then anywhere they wanted to go in the world.

Methos turned back to Morphy and commanded him to kneel.

"Hers was an noble gesture," he murmured, feeling the heft of the strange sword in his hand. He moved it lightly in the air to get the feel of it, and pushed the man in white to his knees. Morphy was blubbering, begging, debasing himself as he pleaded for the mercy he had not shown his own victims.

"You make me ill," Methos snarled, handed the sword to Duncan, and abruptly turned away. He had never killed out of rage before, and now was not the time to start.

Morphy fell onto the pavement, curling up in a tight ball, weeping uncontrollably.

Duncan waited for him to accept his fate and face it like a man, but the White King carried on like a child. Finally, he flung the sword toward the trees and stalked off, disgusted with Morphy's behavior, and unwilling to deliver an honorable death to such a miserable excuse for a human being.

Morphy lay quietly after the echo of footsteps grew silent, and finally stretched out wearily on the stones, taking a deep, shaky breath as he pushed himself to a sitting position. He held his head in his hands and wondered if he could start over again on the island, or if the enmity of the villagers was strong enough after his rousing display of cowardice for them to turn their backs on him. He sighed, and rose slowly to his feet, turning toward the shortest path to the shore.

A woman stood there, dressed in black robes, her fair hair shining in the sun, wafting about her shoulders like a sparkling cloud. She was still and silent, regarding him impassively, and waiting for him to acknowledge her.

"Oonah of the Golden Hair," he said softly. "Your king played well."

"I am Shima Wataru of the Otter People," she stated, her voice soft but commanding. "Once I was a goddess, and I am insulted that you would lower my status to a mere queen."

He bowed slightly, still week from his emotional drainage. "Had I known, I would have made amends."

"Do you know who she was?" Tiamet demanded. "The woman you killed on the beach."

Morphy eyed her suspiciously. "I do. Her name was Indigo Fox."

Tiamet's gaze was hot and cold all at once. "She was also my mother."

A long silence passed between them, and then the man hung his head. "Mine, too. They can sense us, you know, but we can't sense them. Other Immortals can, but not their own children."

She nodded. "I know." She stepped forward and exposed a blade she had been holding in the folds of her long skirt. "The Mothers are special. You should know that."

He shrugged, sad acceptance weighting down his shoulders, making it harder to stand. "It just seemed like the thing to do. I guess it was the wrong move."

Tiamet raised the sword she had picked up from the bushes and swung it with every ounce of strength she possessed.

"Yes, brother," she panted when the Quickening was over. "It was quite the wrong move. Checkmate, on a queen sacrifice." She left the body where it lay, the sword dropped carelessly beside it, and walked slowly back to the boat waiting to take her away.

 

 

"I have to stay, Jarod," she murmured against his chest. "Your hunters will be here soon, and you must be gone before they get here."

"Will you meet me somewhere, then?" He held her close, feeling the sun's heat reflected from her fair hair warming his cheek. She felt so good in his arms, and he didn't want to lose her. There was much he needed to do, but he wanted her to share life with him, share in his discoveries, and help him in the hunt for his mother. The urgency in that quest was now more important than ever.

"Maybe. Later. I have things to do here, and they may take a while."

She smiled up at him and gave him a lingering, provocative kiss before letting him go. "They'll be assigning you a Watcher soon, I'm sure. I wish that hapless person good luck in keeping up with you."

"They already did," he told her with a grin. "Joe Dawson arrived with the news just a little while ago. You'll never guess who they picked."

Tiamet smiled with a suspicious twitch of her eyebrows. "Tell me."

"Adam Pierson. His orders are to do his research on Methos part time. The officers felt I was important enough to rate one of their best Watchers. Scary, isn't it?"

"Meet me in a year at Avebury, England," she said quietly, and watched him walk away to meet the waiting boat.

She waved goodbye and kept watch until he disappeared over the horizon, then set about fulfilling the rest of her mission.

Duncan and Methos recovered Fox's body and severed head from the beach, and brought it into the black castle under Tiamet's instructions. She sent them away while she tended to the body herself, and the next day the trio interred the silk wrapped bundle in a forested patch crowning a small, narrow island across the bay on the westward side of the main island. The two men left shortly after that, and the islanders settled down to a normal pace only briefly interrupted by the arrival of a small army of Americans led by a woman named Parker.

They took many of the contents of Jarod's room with them for study, including a collection of folded paper airplanes, and left confused silence in their wake.

 

 

Three days later, Tiamet sat in the silent darkness of a windowless room carved out of the rock, and waited. She forbade servants to enter her room except at specific times, and when she was not expecting them she would lock the doors, open the hidden panel, and feel her way down the stone steps to the room where the woman's body lay. The body buried on the far island was not that of Indigo Fox, but the late Felicia Martins that had the ill luck to lose her head to Amanda during the final moments of the chess match, and Tiamet had placed Fox's corpse in the secret room, attaching the head back on with pressure and tight wrappings while she waited.

It took a long time, but her patience was rewarded with a quickly in-drawn breath as the body on the cold stone floor reanimated. Fox reached up with her hands and adjusted the position of her head as it grew back into place, and when the painful process was over she removed the bandages from her scarlessly healed throat and sat up slowly.

She smiled at the other woman. _I'm glad you were here to put me back together again, daughter,_ she signed. Fox touched her throat with one hand, lightly. _Too bad the voice box doesn't heal as well as everything else._

"My brother is dead," Tiamet announced quietly. "I thought it best."

Fox's smile faded quickly away, and she nodded agreement. _I wish we had the clairvoyance to know which of our children will be flawed beforehand, that we might avoid their being born._

"We are women, and do not always have the luxury of choice with who fathers our children," Tiamet reminded her. "Was he a child of violence?"

Fox shook her head in denial. _He was on the list of historical candidates. Paul was brilliant, perhaps too brilliant for his time._ She rose from the floor and stretched her legs, back and arms, grateful to be all in one piece again.

"What will you do now?" Tiamet embraced her mother fondly, feeling the smaller woman's arms around her and remembering how big she once seemed. She had missed Fox terribly over the eons they had been separated, and the short time they might have together might have to last her for several thousand years more.

Fox stroked her daughter's hair and kissed her cheek, then pulled away so she could see her answer.

_I'll find a quiet place to rest, have my baby in peace, and then choose a suitable home for it. This one will be special, Tiamet._

The younger woman smiled broadly and gave a happy little clap. "Who's the father this time?"

 _This one was not on the list,_ Fox admitted. Tears gathered in her eyes as she remembered the conception in vivid detail, lightning curling between her body and his as their love merged to create another life. _This one time, I followed my heart, Tiamet. The father is one of ours._

Tiamet paled and put her fingertips to her mouth in surprise. "But I thought Immortals were sterile, except for the Mothers. Only we can survive decapitation, because of the time current that flows through us. You taught me that. And only the Mothers can conceive."

 _The other Immortals are not sterile, child, but the chemistry must be right. With Duncan, I felt it the first time I saw him, and I knew I wanted his child to be born. I can give him that, at least._ Fox smiled and drew her fingers across her daughter's cheek. _You have borne several wonderful young ones, Tiamet. But while you were imprisoned here, I saw that your heart was taken by the young one called Jarod. Do you know who his mother was?_

She shrugged, shook her head.

Fox chuckled, a soft, breathy laugh devoid of vocalization. _He and Methos are brothers,_ she confessed. _Sons of Europa._

Tiamet turned toward the steps leading back to her rooms, listening for her mother to follow. "I would like to give Jarod a child, but we were together for months, and nothing happened."

 _Give it time,_ Fox advised. _We both have plenty of that._

 

 

Duncan MacLeod stood on the rocky coast of Cornwall, sea-borne winds buffeting his hair and clothing. Nearly two years had passed since Fox was taken from him, and he had spent the time living in a small cottage in Penzance, dreaming about her and re-reading the letters they had exchanged. Once more the pain was beginning to ease, his grief lessening daily, and allowing him to get on with his life once more. Joe Dawson had come to see him, and after his visit to the ruins of Tintagel, Duncan was planning to return south to Penzance for dinner with his Watcher, pack up his things and drive back to London for a flight back to Seacover or Paris. He had been away from his old haunts long enough, and it was time he got back into the stream of things.

He turned and started back over the rugged terrain, walking with careful balance, his hands thrust into the pockets of his long black coat. A sound made him look up, and he saw a pair of familiar faces approaching. He waved and met the couple on the grassy sward at the top of the cliffs with a welcome smile.

"Tor, Riona, it's good to see you both together again," he said enthusiastically. "I'm glad to see you found each other."

Riona Somerset shrugged and slipped her arm around her husband's waist. "We always meet back here if we're separated," she told him. "What brings you here, Duncan?"

The Highlander shrugged and glanced back at the waves undulating toward the rocky cliffs. "Just sorting things out, still."

"That was a strange game, indeed," mused Tor. "Do you know what ever became of the White King, who he was?"

Duncan nodded. "I've had a letter from Tiamet. She killed him before she left to find Jarod."

"Then we won't have to be watching our backs forever," Riona summed up. Her dark hair had been dyed a strawberry blonde that was quite becoming, made her look somehow more Scottish than her natural brunette. And the Scots accent of her youth was stronger now, as if she had just come from Glenfinnan, from her home.

Duncan knew his accent changed in the islands as well, more British in the English-speaking portion of the country, more Scottish in the north. The sight and sound of her made him homesick, and he thought a brief trip to the Highlands would be just the thing to buoy his spirits. He smiled back at his former lover and found himself pleased to see that relationships between Immortals could last happily ever after. They gave him hope.              

A young family strolled toward the trio, man and woman each holding the chubby hand of a dark-haired toddler between them as they strolled the grassy grounds. The baby laughed with delight at the sounds of waves and seagulls, the wash of ocean-scented air over his skin beneath the summer sun, and his parents talked happily between themselves and pointed at the ruins where King Arthur was purported to have been born, never imagining the man himself was standing just a few feet away from them.

Duncan chuckled to himself. "If they only knew he was standing right here," he mused with a knowing wink toward Tor.

"Yes, well, aren't we all glad they don't," Tor shot back dryly.

"The child must be adopted," Riona observed. "Look how different he is from his parents."

Mother and father were British fair and blond, while the child's dark hair and complexion made him stand out from them.

"He's adopted, all right," Duncan stated as the family meandered closer. The slight shimmer of the Latent warning registered somewhere in the back of his mind, hardly noticeable at all, but for an Immortal who paid attention to such things, he took heed immediately.

Riona patted her husband's lean waist and glanced up at him. "We should make their acquaintance."

"I want to do this one, Riona," Duncan cut in before Tor could answer. "You two are never in one place long enough to make decent friendships, anyway."

"You know, Duncan, the way Fate keeps throwing curves, one day you may end up raising a child like that," Riona reminded him somberly. Then she smiled fondly as she watched the boy laughing, big dimples cleaving his little cheeks. "And damned if he doesn't look just like you."

"He does? I wouldn't know. Never saw any pictures of me as a lad." Duncan embraced Riona and Tor both in parting, and the couple left the scene to give him time to make the family's acquaintance in his own way. He would befriend the couple and keep tabs on the child as he grew, so that when the time came, he could introduce the boy to the Game as he had with Michelle Webster, Claudia Jardine, and many others. And if the opportunity ever presented itself, he would inquire about where they had gotten their baby, adding a little more information to the search for his own origins.

Immortals had to come from somewhere, and since they were still being born, there were fathers or mothers out there who might know even more. Duncan MacLeod was a patient man, and one day he would know all the answers.

He smiled at the family, extended his hand, and offered a polite introduction and a comment on the beautiful day. 

FIN


End file.
